


Black Eyed Dog

by Beguile



Category: Daredevil (TV), Defenders, Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), The Punisher (tv)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Animal Transformation, Fluff, Friendship, Implied Nudity, Loneliness, M/M, Magic, Slow Burn, Some Swearing, The Real Superpower Was Friendship All Along, Witches, lots of fluff, references to Canon typical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24133480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: Jessica’s on the hunt for a witch. She finds the witch’s most recent victim, Frank, instead.Or: the one where Frank has been turned into a dog.
Relationships: Frank Castle & Trish Walker, Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 221
Kudos: 259





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluesyturtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesyturtle/gifts).



> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> A few weeks ago now, I got a prompt on Tumblr from bluesyturtle asking for “aspectabund – letting emotion show easily through the face or eyes.” I hope this fills the prompt, lovely! 
> 
> This story takes place in the same universe as another fic of mine, _Talking Bodies_ , where the Defenders undergo a body swap. You don’t need to read that fic to understand this one. All you need to know is that magic is a thing that can do things in this universe, and that Jessica is still upset that she ended up wearing Danny’s costume from the comics. 
> 
> This fic also takes place in the same universe as my other Defenders fics where they’re all fighting crime together and they all have the powers established in their first seasons and nobody became a supervillain and everything’s fine. 
> 
> I’ve tagged this as Fratt, because that’s where it’s headed, but I anticipate more of a slow burn and fluff, lots of fluff. 
> 
> Readers, dear Readers, please enjoy.

* * *

Jessica doesn’t tell the others. Luke would tell her to let it go, Matt might try to join her, and Danny would get in the way. But she can’t abandon the hunt. The witch who body-swapped them isn’t going to get away, not when Jessica ended up in spandex with a weapon of mass destruction for a fist.

She finds herself creeping through a derelict apartment building on a lead. Well, she finds herself there after following graffiti in the surrounding alleyways that looks like magic symbols. Bit of a long shot, but Jessica will take any evidence nowadays. She’s already canvassed the magic and new age shops. She’s got the numbers of various covens, has sipped tea with more than one seasoned practitioner. Symbols in an alley feels like the hottest the trail has ever been.

Dead leaves collect in the concrete corners of the ground floor on the chilly autumn wind. Jessica buries her free hand in the pocket of her jacket while scanning the dark with a flashlight in the other. She heads up the stairs. The higher she goes, the less it sounds like the wind rustling from above. Footsteps. She hears footsteps. Probably squatters, but hey, little bit of non-magical action tonight will beat the whole lot of nothing she’s found so far.

Adrenaline surges through her as she comes up to the third floor. There’s a definite smell of death wafting out of the darkness, and the footsteps have stopped. The silence reinforces the lingering traces of violence in the air. Jessica peers around the corner, her light catching signs of a fight. A coat thrown off, boots kicked around the floor, and beyond that, an outstretched arm that disappears around the next corner.

Jessica braces herself: less for magic than for a fight. The woman she’s looking for isn’t a killer. A pain in the ass, yeah, with a shitty sense of humour, but the flashlight beam glints on shell casings, and those are decidedly not magical. Neither is the remaining trail of fabric leading straight past Jess in the opposite direction. Men’s pants, shirt, socks, underwear. A shoulder holster and weapons cast aside. No magic up here. Jessica’s found her way to the remains of a gun fight that clearly ended with one guy dead and another guy stripping off his clothes and running into the dark.

“Great.” Jessica kicks at the pile of clothing near her feet. It’s heavier than she expects. She picks it up, twists it round, and there, staring at her from the chest, is a spray-painted skull.

“Great,” she says, louder this time. Frank Castle’s been here. And he’s killed a guy. And he’s naked. She tosses the vest onto the floor and scans the hallway, waiting to catch sight of his pasty psycho ass glowering at her through the dark.

“Look, I’m calling the cops, Castle.” There’s a scurry of what Jessica thinks are footsteps, but it might also be leaves on the floor below her. “You come quiet, I’ll make sure you get your pants back for when they book you. Nobody has to know about this, whatever this is.”

The wind whistles outside, but inside, it’s nothing but Jessica and a dead guy. “Don’t make me come after you,” she says, less threatening than begging. She isn’t looking forward to having it out with Frank Castle in full tactical gear, let alone Frank Castle naked. “Come on, Frank.”  
  
Footsteps scuffle around the corner with the dead guy. Jessica swings the flashlight back, but she doesn’t leave her post at the top of the stairs. She uses her toe to draw Frank’s pants close and stands on them. He tries to get past her, she’s not letting him go, and definitely not with his pants.

Out of respect for what little dignity he has left (and her own eyes), Jessica keeps the flashlight beam at chest-level. Yet when the footsteps emerge, there’s nothing to be seen. Even as the footsteps approach, the hallway stays empty. Jessica groans: the asshole must be crawling. She dips the flashlight just in time to catch two glassy eyes and a sleek furry body trying to scamper past her, down the stairs.

Jessica grabs the dog around the neck and pushes him back. His growls comes low from the back of his throat, deeper and louder thanks to that boxy chest of his. Muscles shift under the glossy coat of gunmetal fur, wiry and taut, but he doesn’t attack. He stares up at Jessica and makes like he’s going to rip her throat out even as she tries to keep her eyes peeled for Frank coming at her from the sides, the dog having been a diversion.

A blaze of white in the beam keeps catching her eyes. Jessica looks back, snapping that the damn dog needs to shut up with his growling, but her voice dies in her throat. The white patch of fur on the pitbull’s chest, it could have been ripped from the Punisher’s own Kevlar for how much it looks like a skull.

Jessica’s whole body goes cold. She glances two either end of the hallway, hoping, now, that Frank’s about to run out of the dark to stop her from what she’s about to do. When he doesn’t, she forces herself to say, “Frank,” to the dog.

The growling stops, just for a second, but it picks right back up again, and Doggo stares straight into her through the flashlight beam that’s probably blinding him.

Jessica lowers the flashlight. She tosses her arms at her sides, half-inclined to march right the hell out of there because the magic-user obviously isn’t here, and Jessica isn’t over the first spell that witch cast, let alone this one. Frank’s growl dies in this throat for lack of breath, and the silence helps Jessica come back to reality. She scans the hallway again, wondering what the hell to do besides leave.

“The woman who did this to you,” Jessica says, feeling like a gigantic idiot despite – or perhaps very much because – she’s talking to a dog, “Is she still here?”  
  
The dog – Frank – stops growling and gives a single twist of his head in an emphatic ‘no.’

“Did she say…?” Jessica makes sure her question can be answered with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ before continuing. “Did she say how long this would last?”

Nothing. Frank just stands there in the dark trying to look menacing, which is really hard to do as a dog. His dark eyes should be murderous, but the way the fur on his forehead wrinkles gives him a softer, dopey appearance even as he bares his teeth again. The incongruity of knowing what Frank Castle looks like as a person doesn’t help Jessica’s impression. Giant body on four matchstick legs, a body face with round eyes. Little ears pointed forward like devil horns over his face. The whole picture is decidedly un-scary.

Jessica nods and scans the hallway again. Not really sure where to go from here. The body-swap spell wore off on its own, so likely the dog transformation spell will too. Maybe. Frank killing a guy is scary enough for a non-magical person. The witch might have made this transformation permanent, and then what? Punisher’s just a dog from now on? Jessica hated every second of the spandex experience, and it was temporary. She can’t wrap her head around being permanently transformed.

“Look, I’m calling the cops,” she says, the words coming despite not having a formal plan worked out in her head. She doesn’t want to stick around and answer questions. NYPD is already suspicious as hell of her, Danny, Luke, and Matt. “They’re not going to put you under arrest like this. Or believe that you’re you.” So what, then? “If you start messing things up as Punisher dog, animal control will put you down.”

Jessica sighs, looking at Frank. The ways his lips relax around his teeth. Even if he isn’t standing down, he’s thinking the same things she is: that this is a bad position for him to be in, he wants to keep doing what he’s doing. And no one deserves to die like this, not even Frank Castle.

“You…” She rolls her eyes, weary of her own bleeding God damn heart. “Probably best for you to lay low. For right now. This’ll probably just wear off on its own. You can just…come on, or whatever.”

Frank doesn’t move, not even to growl at her.

Jessica shrugs. “Fine.”

She turns to go down the stairs, dialing 9-1-1 on speaker as she goes. The dispatcher answers, and before Jessica can start talking, a sound emerges from the dark behind her. It starts as a growl and then falters into a warbling whine.

Frank has gone still, perfectly still, trying to pretend that wasn’t him when he’s the only dog around. He stands at the top of the stairs having skulked over at some point, and his eyes are soft even in the flashlight beam. Can’t hide them anymore than he could that whine of his. Guess he’s figured out the basics of scary-murder snarl but it’s really hard to keep up that practiced veneer of Stone-Cold Psycho Murderer when he’s furry and four-legged.

Jessica sighs again. “Yeah,” she tells 9-1-1. “I need to report a murder.”

It’s her. She’s dead. Or she should be, taking pity on Punisher like this.

She gives the address and hangs up. “Come on,” she orders Frank.

He springs back into the dark.

“Or don’t,” she says, leaving him.

She hasn’t hit the next landing before Frank appears behind her, dragging his vest along with his mouth. Jessica grabs it and rips it from his teeth even as he tries to fight her for it. “I said lay low,” she snaps, but she doesn’t drop the vest. She folds it over her arm and takes it with them.

* * *

Happy reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> I meant to have this chapter up so much sooner. I’m sorry for the delay. May completely got away from me. Thank you for your patience <3 
> 
> Readers, dear Readers, I hope that wherever you are, you are safe and happy and healthy. Enjoy.

* * *

Calls to Danny, Luke, and Matt’s phones go straight to voicemail. Clearly they’re out for the night. Jessica isn’t in the mood to explain over the phone. She sums up the situation with some variation of, “Hey, asshole. Meet at my place. Got something you need to see.” Then she hangs up.

She glances down at Frank where he’s heeling on her left. “I’m glad you don’t need a leash,” she says. He gives a small grunt in response without taking his eyes off the passersby. Still the Punisher, even in a dog’s body. At one point he even stops, sniffing the air. Takes him forever to get moving again. He gives Jessica a nod to indicate that it’s all clear before they do.

They come to her building, Frank still at her knee. He goes to sit when they get on the elevator, but he can’t seem to get the position right. Jessica watches him shuffling as he tries to figure out where his legs go. He notices her staring and gives up, choosing to stand at her side.

“No judgment from me,” Jessica says, “I couldn’t do it either.”  
  
Frank makes a sound in the back of his throat, weirdly high-pitched. Not a growl, then. Something like agreement. Jessica knows what he means at any rate. “At least you’re not wearing spandex.”  
  
He gives her a look as the elevator doors open. Jessica isn’t prepared to say more. She exits, and Frank sticks at her side, his dog face nudging the air with increasing aggression as he picks up new scents. When they come to the door, he whips around, staring down the hallway in anticipation of a fight. Jessica can’t help but watch as she unlocks her door. “You really think I’m going to let you attack one of my neighbours,” she deadpans.

Frank shoots her a glance, then looks back to the hall, his own way of telling her to _get on with it_. As if they only have so much time before, what, Malcolm steps out of his apartment? At three in the morning? For no reason? Jessica gets the door unlocked. “Jesus, you need to chill.” She steps inside and looks back to see Frank backing his way in, double dog daring the hallway to come at him, bro.

Jessica closes the door behind them. She tosses the vest onto the couch. Frank stands in the middle of her office, nose up in the air, ears roving around the space. “It’s just us, Castle,” she assures him. 

Frank makes a sound like a bull about to charge and then starts a perimeter sweep of the room. He sniffs his way to the corner, around behind her desk. Jessica gets ahead of him and pushes the drawers closed before he can get into them. Not that Frank’s interested in getting into them. He stops shy of her kitchen, the sight of her bedroom propelling him back into the office where he stands like a reluctant client. A guy who doesn’t want to be there, isn’t sure he’s ready to hire her. A guy who doesn’t know why he’s there or what he’s doing.

Trying to picture him as a human doesn’t do shit. Jessica still wants to claw her own skin off with feeling for him. “You want a drink?” she asks, retreating into the kitchen. She’s rinsing out the glasses in the sink when she remembers Frank can’t use a glass. “I do.”

She comes back and Frank is looking at her, his tail wagging behind him. Jessica raises a brow, and he stops, huffing again. Clearly unintentional. She throws him a bone. Metaphorically. “Do you need water or…dog food...?”

Frank levels a stare at her. Jessica rolls her eyes. “Look, you’re not scary. You can’t be scary. Do you want a drink or not?”

He goes stock-still. Same as when they were on the stairs and he didn’t want her to leave. Jessica damn near walks away from him. But at the last second, Frank gives a nod. Jessica goes back to the kitchen, grabs a bowl out of her cupboard, and fills it with water from the tap. She brings it out to the office and puts it in front of him.

Frank sniffs at it, then goes back to standing there, staring at her. Jessica nudges the bowl with her foot and gets stared at some more. “It’s just water.”  
He huffs and looks away from her, and finally, Jessica gets it. “Right,” she deadpans, and with that, she turns away, walking back towards the kitchen so he can have some privacy. “You realize you’re going to be pissing in public until you turn back into a human, right?” She rifles through the cupboards and finally hears him start to drink. Water splashes onto the floor and over his teeth. Jessica grabs a box of crackers and the nearly empty jar of peanut butter. She waits until the drinking stops and then goes back to the office.

Frank is on the other side of the office, shuffling his weight between each of his four feet. Still figuring himself out. Jessica distracts herself by pouring herself a drink from the bottle behind the desk. Danny’s body had some quirks to put it mildly, but she was walking on two feet, handling stuff with two hands. Meanwhile, Frank can’t even sit down. He’s got that lost client look on his face, the one who doesn’t want to admit he thinks his partner is cheating (when his partner’s definitely cheating); the worried parent with a missing kid who can’t call the cops because junior’s on the wrong side of everything. And it’s even worse, because he’s doing it with a dog’s face, with a dog’s eyes.

Jessica hunkers down on the couch, hating herself and how soft she’s getting for a psycho-killer, but she’s been there. Four legs and fur might not wedge and pinch the way spandex does, but at least she was human. At least she had people. And those meditation tricks Danny taught her still come in handy, though she’s behooved to admit it.

“Hey, Castle,” Jessica calls. He looks at her immediately, the way a well-trained dog would; the way Jessica can see him doing even if he was still a human. She nudges her head to the empty spot beside her. “Couch is more comfortable than the floor.”  
  
He gives one of those huffs of his and makes a slow inspection of the perimeter of the far wall instead. He comes to one of her windows and hops up onto his hind legs to look out.

Standing there on his matchstick-y hind legs, this giant hulk of dog peering at the city. “You look ridiculous,” Jessica says.

Frank growls in response and goes on looking.

Jessica finished her drink. She ponders the remaining crackers in the sleeve, checks her phone for missed calls. What the hell, then. She goes to her desk and pours another glass. Behind her, Frank’s pawsteps trickle through the apartment. Another foolish walk of the wall. Go hard, Frank. He can wear a damn trench in the floor if he wants.

Bit a surprise, then, when Jessica turns and finds Frank half on the couch. Front legs slung over the ledge as he struggles to get propped up by them. He stops immediately and slides off, shooting a disgusted gnash of his teeth at the couch as if it’s the problem. He’s back to trotting uselessly around the apartment, avoiding her and the couch and everything else.

Jessica leaves her drink on the desk. She marches over to Frank, ignores that ridiculous growl he gives her, grabs him, and drops him onto the damn couch. He goes to jump off; Jessica gets right up in his snarling face. “Jump off this couch and I’ll cage you.”

Frank doesn’t stop snarling. He even toes the edge of the couch. Jessica smirks. “Danny’ll buy you something really solid.”

He barks at her.

“Stop.”

He barks again.

“Stop!” Jessica says, and before he can go again, “I get a noise complaint, I tell them I picked up a stray, and you end up in the pound. Best case scenario, you turn back into a human before they have a chance to cut your balls off.”

Frank’s growl doesn’t waver, but his paw doesn’t move any closer to the edge of the couch.

Jessica gets even closer to his boxy snout. “So _stay_.”

Frank lunges at her, flashing his teeth, but it's as effective as his attempts at murder-glares. All bark, no bite. He's a dog playing Punisher. Jessica coolly leans away from him only after he’s quiet. She goes back to her side of the couch and dips another cracker in peanut butter, washing it down with a sip of bourbon. A glance at Frank finds him sulking on his side. He's trying to be subtle about it, but it's no use. Not able to sit properly, he's leaning into the corner of the couch, giving all the airs of a petulant toddler. She can feel him seething from the promise she's made - and he should. Animal control wants him, they can take him. Good riddance, the way he's pointedly _not_ looking in her direction.

Jessica puts the remainder of her cracker in her mouth and reaches for another. She dips it into the peanut butter, then she puts the finished product into the lid of the peanut butter container. She pushes the lid over to Frank. And before he pulls the same shit with the water, and because she doesn’t want to talk about this, and because, fuck, animal control wouldn't even put him in a cage, they'd just put him down, Jessica gets up and goes to grab her glass from the desk.

Behind her, she can distinctly hear the sound of Frank flopping over, his loose dog lips and teeth and tongue working at that cracker.

God, she is getting soft.

Jessica turns back around to find Frank licking at his lips. “Good boy,” she says.

He growls at her. 

* * *

Happy reading!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> If there is one relationship in this – outside of the Fratt – that I wanted to write, it’s Trish and Frank. And I finally started to, and I can’t wait to write more of it. 
> 
> Readers, dear Readers, I hope that you are happy, healthy, and safe. Be good to yourselves.

* * *

The hallway is already warm from daylight as Trish gets off the elevator. Wrapping up the early morning call with her producer is a relief: her left arm is currently pulling triple duty, coffee and breakfast in hand while a second coffee is pinned between her torso and forearm. Getting to put her phone down means easing the weight of her purse, if only for a moment, and frees up her hand to fish the keys out of her pocket. 

There’s noise from Jess’s apartment as she approaches, scuffling mostly. Scratching? Trish raises a brow. Alias doesn’t get a whole lot of clients looking to pick fights anymore, not since Jess started keeping company with the Heroes of Harlem, Hell’s Kitchen, and wherever Danny calls home. And even when Alias was getting put through the ringer, Jess never cared much about cleaning up.

Trish gets the key into the lock and the scuffling stops. “Jess?” she asks. The door swings open to reveal the office in a pretty presentable state. An empty jar of peanut butter lies on the couch next to its lid. There’s a bowl on the floor. Papers and discarded clothing litter the furniture. Maybe Jess was cleaning up. But then where is she now?

“Jess?” Trish asks again, checking the corners of the room before walking towards the desk. The apartment’s too quiet. Jess couldn’t have scampered off when she came inside, nor would she. Somebody else is in the room, Trish just knows it. She puts the bag and coffees on the desk and drops her purse into her hand as a weapon, ready for a fight.

The desk chair rolls an inch towards the window. Trish glares. “Got’cha.” 

She jumps around the desk and yanks the chair back, and only then does she think she might have overreacted. Might be some guy Jess brought home last night, and here Trish goes ready to beat them with her purse. Although, in her defence, anyone who hides under a desk on a Tuesday morning walk of shame deserves to get hit with a purse.

Much to Trish’s surprise – and relief, and then embarrassment – she isn’t threatening an interloper. There’s a dog under Jess’s desk. A steel-gray pitbull stares up at her from the dark, cheeks puffed in preparation for a fight that isn’t forthcoming.

“Hi,” Trish says, dropping her purse on the desk. Even in the dark, the dog’s eyes as soft as can be, almost sad. She holds out a hand to sniff. The dog settles into stillness, staring up at her from its hiding place almost mournfully. Trish draws back her hand, holding it up defensively. “Hey, it’s okay! It’s okay. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you! I-“ she sighs. “I didn’t know Jess got a dog.”

She tries again with her hand and is, again, ignored. The dog shuffles uncomfortably under the desk, unable to manoeuvre in the space. Trish takes a step back, looking for a solution. She nabs the bag of breakfast, reaches inside, and rips a chunk off one of the bagels as a peace offering.

The dog sniffs once on instinct, but his mood shift on a dime, from quizzical to dismissive, frustrated even. He shakes his head and backs away, bumping into the desk, and that’s the last straw. He bolts between the desk and the chair through the kitchen door. Trish thinks she’s lost him when he suddenly doubles back. He comes to the small space between the doorway and the couch, and he plants himself there with all the airs of a dog who definitely didn’t just do what he just did.

He sits funny. Not that Trish knows a lot about dogs, but even this one seems to recognize he’s got a problem. He keeps moving his weight from one hip, then the other, his hind feet bucking out of position.

Trish puts the bagel back in the bag and the bag back on the desk. She comes around slowly, not wanting to spook him for the, what? Third or fourth time now? The dog pointedly refuses to look in her direction. His spine gets straighter and straighter the closer she comes to him, and Trish doesn’t stop until he gets knocked out of his sitting position. He gives a growl, circling on the spot before plunking down again, still refusing to meet Trish’s concerned stare.

“It’s okay,” Trish reassures him. She puts her hand down. The dog does not sniff it. He keeps his eyes on the arm of the couch. “It’s okay. I’m a friend. Just a friend.” She gets ready to yank her hand back if the dog lunges, but she goes ahead with gently rubbing his head. The dog ducks away at first, but he changes his mind at the last second, instead holding himself with that same eerie stillness that he tried to when he first came to sit.

Trish doesn’t push her luck or the dog’s patience. “Hi,” she says again, softer this time. The dog doesn’t seem any more at ease but at least he isn’t scampering around the room. She gives him a little rub behind the ears before pulling her hand away. “What’s your name, huh?”

No collar. Jess must not have gotten him one yet. Trish brushes the place where it would be on his neck and the dog leans into her. He pulls out of the motion a second later, shaking his head and huffing, disappointed in her or himself or maybe the both of them. Big, bad pitbull getting undone by a little bit of a neck scratch. “You’re definitely Jess’s dog.” 

The dog gives what sounds like a low growl but the sound is cut short. One glance at Trish, an actual glance, and he goes right back to acting like a statue. Trish gives him a conciliatory scratch on the head. “Okay, okay,” she says, “You’re no one’s dog. Big, tough guy like you isn’t anyone’s dog.” 

He looks even more disappointed, which Trish didn’t think was possible. She gives a small laugh, because there he goes, proving her point: this is exactly the kind of dog for Jess.

Speaking of – Jess appears on the far side of the couch, still in the clothes from the night before. Hair matted on one side from sleep. She scrubs a hand over her face, using the other to give a wave.

“Morning,” Trish says. She gestures to the desk with one hand while the other scrubs over the dog’s head one more time. “I brought breakfast.” And then, with her hand still firmly on the dog, who has gone so still he’s shaking from the exertion, “When did you get a dog?” 

May as well have thrown a bucket of ice water on Jess for how quickly she wakes up at that. She blinks frantically, clearing the rest of the sleep out of her eyes, and stares at the dog.

“Is this…not your dog?” Trish asks.

“That’s Frank Castle.”

The crest of white on his chest really resembles a skull, now that Jess mentions it. “He does kind of look like a Punisher dog,” Trish concedes, scrubbing him behind the ears. Frank’s trying his best not to react but his tail gives singular flap against Jess’s hardwood.

“No, I mean that’s actually Frank Castle. The Punisher.”

Trish rolls her eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.” 

“Come on, Jess.”

“Body swapping,” Jess says loudly, like Trish dragged the words out of her instead of volunteering information. “You remember that?” 

Trish can play this game too: “You mean, do I remember the cryptic text message you sent me that said, ‘Can’t talk. I’ve been body swapped’? And when I asked you what it meant, you said it’s a long story.”

“It’s not a long story.” 

“You were body swapped.” 

“Yeah, I was body swapped. And the same person who did the body swapping did that.” 

“Frank Castle’s been body-swapped,” Trish says slowly, trying to wrap her head around how much she’s just learned, “With a dog?”

Jess groans.

“There’s a dog running around New York right now in Frank Castle’s body?” 

“No, she didn’t body swap him. She just turned him into a dog.” 

Trish makes a face. She doesn’t _not_ believe Jess, not with the Incident, with the Avengers Initiative, with the ninja army and mind control and even the body swapping. But she’s drawing a line at people being turned into animals for reasons that seem rather unfathomable the more she reflects on her own disbelief.

She takes a step back, looking at the dog. At Frank. He’s looking her in the eyes, and there’s definitely an intelligence there, but Trish has seen that in dogs’ eyes before. She looks back at Jess. “That’s Frank Castle.” 

“Tell her Frank,” Jess says.

Frank does no such thing. What he does do is look at Jess, cheeks puffing up like he’s ready to growl, before turning back to Trish, face softening. Dark eyes gleaming in the sunshine.

Jess points, “You see that?”

Trish isn’t sure what she sees. She looks the dog dead in the eyes, makes her voice nice and welcoming, forces herself back to that place when she thought this was some stray Jess had brought home and not some mass murderer, and she asks, “Frank? Is that you?”

The dog huffs, turning his head away from her. He gives a shake, adjusts the way he’s sitting, before finally giving a small grunt that comes across like a begrudging, “Yes, ma’am.” 

Trish goes to Jess’s desk, rifling through the drawers for paper. She writes _yes_ on one half, _no_ on the other, and puts the paper on the floor in front of Frank. “Are you Frank Castle?” she asks again.

Frank shoots a pleading look over at Jess, but she’s no help. She folds her arms across her chest smugly. “I mean, he could always be some stray,” Jess says. “Maybe I better call animal control.”

“Jess,” Trish says, exhausted with the posturing. From both Jess and the dog. “If you were going to call animal control, you would have last night.” Then, to Frank: “Look, you’re not doing yourself any favours. If you’re really Frank Castle just answer the question.”

  
His next breath is a sigh. Awkwardly, like a human trying to figure out an entirely new body, Trish realizes, Frank moves one of his forelegs to the paper and steps on the word, “Yes.”

He retracts his paw as if scalded a second later.

“Told you,” Jess says. She disappears into the kitchen.

“Okay,” Trish thinks of her next question, trying to put it in terms where the answer is either yes or no. “Do you know who did this to you? Actually, could you identify who did this to you?” 

Another yes.

“I can also identify who did this to him," Jess deadpans.

“Yeah, but he’s a dog, Jess!” Trish says. “You have to work by sight. He could work by smell.” She realizes she’s making assumptions. To Frank: “Right? You could track this person?” 

He doesn’t answer, not with the paper. He looks away, his pitbull face looking so much grumpier than he must realize.

Trish tries to stay positive. “Okay, yeah, I guess if you could track her, you would have last night.” She stands up, leaving the paper in case they need to talk some more. “What are you going to do?” 

Jess comes out of the kitchen and sits down on the desk, diving into the bagels and the coffee. She takes out the piece Trish already ripped off and holds it up for Frank. “Hungry?” 

The side-eye Frank gives her speaks volumes, though Trish has a hard time getting worked up over it. She remembers seeing pictures of Frank Castle in the papers. This might be Frank in a dog’s body, but the dog’s body makes all the difference.

She goes into the kitchen and grabs a plate, swapping it out for a bowl when she concedes that Frank’s pride aside, he has a snout now. The staredown between Frank and Jess is still raging when she gets back. Trish is only too happy to put an end to it by putting the chunk of bagel in the bowl and laying it at Frank’s feet.

Jess hands her the bag. Trish looks inside to see the whole bagel left inside. Jess took the ripped one for herself, and she even tore off another chunk for Frank, who hasn’t so much glanced at his meal.

“Oh, right,” Jess says, turning around on her desk. “He won’t eat if you watch.”

Trish gives Frank that much at least. She puts her back to him too, wishing there was more she could do. Mass murderer or no, nobody deserves this. Trish knows indignity all too well, knows how it feels to have it, knows how it sticks, how it can’t be shaken, even when the people around you don’t judge. She plays with the bag as she eats to give Frank the benefit of a little more privacy.

“What are you going to do?” she asks again.

Jess doesn’t answer immediately. Not a good sign: means she has no idea what she’s going to do. Frank saves her the trouble of trying to come up with a response. He growls and comes to stand in the centre of the office. He shoots a look at Trish and Jess that seems to say, “Run,” or at the very least, “Stay behind me.” Then he goes back to glaring at the door.

Two shadows appear. The larger one knocks at the door.

“It’s Luke and Danny,” Jess says.

Frank stops growling, but he doesn’t stop standing guard.

* * *

Happy reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> The end of school has been hard this year. I’m happy to have fannish things to give me joy. Readers, dear Readers, I hope this brings you joy too. Cheers!

* * *

Trish kind of dreads having the whole “the dog is Frank Castle” conversation with Luke and Danny. They’re fresh from a night of defending. The bullet holes in Luke’s tee are visible above the open neck of his hoodie. Danny has dirt on his knees and a bloody lip, and his designer coat does nothing to hide the vibrant green leotard he calls a costume. Even if all they see is an aggressive dog, Jess might not get the chance to tell them who the dog happens to be.

And if she does that, there still might be a fight.

Jess doesn’t give them a chance to close the door. She’s so quick, Frank barely gets a chance to go into a lunge. “It’s Frank Castle. The dog.”

“Good morning,” Luke says, brow furrowed in confusion. He swings the door shut behind him, leaving Danny to try and charge forward, get a look at the situation. All Trish sees is the skin-tight green of his costume along his forearm, his magical fist ready at his side.

One look at Frank, and the fight seems to drain out of him. “The dog…?” Danny asks, “That’s Frank Castle?”

“Frank, tell them.”

Frank growls. Really growls. Not the kind of barks and grimaces that Trish has already seen.

“Don’t,” Jess warns him. Rightfully.

Doesn’t matter what Frank wants to do: Danny isn’t doing it. His face breaks tentatively into a smile. He bends, putting his hands on his thighs. Again, he’s asking, “That’s Frank Castle?” this time with gleaming eyes and a higher pitch to his voice, as if he’s speaking to a child.

From behind, Luke is rising back to his full height, having bent down to pick up the Kevlar vest from the floor. The one emblazoned with a skull.

Trish glances at Jess. “You could have showed me that.”

Jess rolls her eyes – could’ve, would’ve, should’ve.

The sight of the vest is too much for Frank. He gives a disgusted huff and stalks back towards his corner, plunking down beside the couch in such a way that he can still glare at Danny. He’s going to leave it at that, but he’s frustrated. He goes to jab at the ‘yes/no’ paper with his foreleg, but he stops short, eyes on Trish. He backs up, hanging his head slightly in embarrassment, apology even, before going back to glaring at Danny, who hasn’t stopped smiling.

“The woman who body-swapped us,” Jess says by way of explanation, shoving the rest of the bagel into her mouth.

“Frank got body-swapped with a dog?” Luke asks.

“You really need to stop leading with that,” Trish says.

Jess rolls her eyes, swallows. “No, he’s not body-swapped. He just got turned into a dog. I think he was onto her. He killed some guy last night. I found the body on her tail.”

Danny’s expression hardens suddenly. He gives as good as he gets from Frank, right hand balling into a fist at his side. “Was probably trying to kill her.”

Frank straightens. Even sitting as awkwardly as he is, he’s shaking from the force of holding himself back from an attack.

Jess shrugs. “I don’t know what he was trying to do.”

The possibility of a fight weighs heavily in the air. Trish steps out from behind the desk before Danny’s fist can start glowing or Frank can dive out from beside the couch. “So ask him,” she offers. “Frank, were you going to kill the person who did this to you?”

Frank looks to Trish. His eyes soften. He isn’t shaking quite so badly, but he doesn’t answer.

Danny’s fist glows. He breathes the power out of it, but that doesn’t mean he’s less likely to take a swing. “That’s a ‘yes.’”

“That’s a nothing,” Trish says. “He didn’t answer.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter anyways,” Luke adds. He comes up to Danny’s shoulder with the same thoughts as Trish, ready to intervene if Frank or Danny decide to stop holding back. The look on his face, though, it’s incredulous. Lot of places Luke Cage saw himself, but mediating a fight between the Immortal Iron Fist and a human turned into a pitbull is not one of them. “The spell she cast on us only lasted a couple of days. It’s probably the same for him.”  
  
“We weren’t trying to kill her,” Jess notes.

Trish can’t deal with the accusation for a second time, not from Jess. She gets them back on topic, away from subjects that will only inspire a fight. “Did she say how long this would last, Frank?”

Frank keeps his eyes trained on her, and he keeps them waiting so long Trish thinks he might not answer again. But then Frank moves his paw and taps ‘no.’

The answer drains some of the intensity from the room. Gives them all a change to breathe, to think about what to do next besides beat the crap out of each other. Which, admittedly, Trish isn’t opposed to, but a fight between a dog and a ninja is hardly fair. Animal control is more humane than that.

Luke takes calm charge of the situation. “We’ll go ask around at some of the magick shops. Just maybe not the one that Jess blew the door off of.”

Jess crumples up the paper bag in warning. Trish raises a brow. “You blew the door off of a magick shop?”  
  
“Danny’s fist wouldn’t stop glowing,” Jess says.

“ _Your_ fist wouldn’t stop glowing,” Danny counters, “You were in my body.” And then, to Luke, “Why would we help him? He’s a murderer, a sadist. He’s fought against us. He wrote that whole book about Matt. If he has been turned into a dog permanently, it’s better than what he deserves.”  
  
Frank’s face doesn’t move: no puffing of the cheeks, no baring of his teeth. But his growl is so low in his throat the sound seems to shake the apartment. Danny glares, lowering his head the way he sometimes does when he’s wearing the mask, when he wants to make a point. Even with his blonde curls, he still looks like a threat, the power gathering in his fist. “I should put you in a cage.”

“We could put him in a cage,” Luke says. He doesn’t seem to think that’s a terrible idea.

The indignity of being imprisoned crossed Frank’s face. He sits straight up and stares a hole in the opposite wall. He’ll face what comes and rip the throat out of anyone who tries to stop him, and Trish isn’t ready to see what Danny’s fist can do. “Nobody’s putting anybody in a cage.” 

“He’s the Punisher,” Danny says. 

“He’s a dog,” Jess deadpans.

“Not helping, Jess,” Trish says.

“Who says I wanna help?”  
  
Trish turns around, lowers her voice. “You brought him back here. If you really wanted him gone-“

Jess rolls her eyes. “Stop.”  
  
“-you would have called animal control last night. But you,” Trish turns to face Danny and Luke, “You all know how that ends. Three superpowered humans versus one dog isn’t a fair fight. And as much as you would like to see Frank Castle behind bars, that isn’t the way to do it.”

Frank shifts on his hindquarters, sitting still a work in progress, and Trish tries not to look. Again with that wave of empathy, stronger this time, and Frank must feel it too because he gets up and walks out of the room, into the kitchen. He circles around and comes back a second later, but he doesn’t try sitting anymore. He paces around between the desk and the couch, eyeing the door.

“He’s gonna make a run for it,” Danny says.

Jess groans. “No,” she says.

Trish knows exactly what that tone means. Luke seems to get it too.

“You want to take him?” he asks Jess.

“No,” but she hops off the desk anyways.

Danny doesn’t get it. “What?”  
  
Frank gives a growl for them not to tell him. It’s a growl Jess, Trish, and Luke and happy to abide. “Come on,” Jess says, as Luke handles the door. She isn’t followed, instead getting a growl and a fighting stance from Frank.

“Hey, asshole,” Jess puts a hand up to pre-empt any more fighting by Danny, “He’s not gonna fight you. Come on.”  
  
Frank still doesn’t budge. Luke translates: “He doesn’t want to go with you, Jess.”

“Well, I might fight him,” Jess admits. Back to Frank: “But you’re not going alone. So who’s it gonna be, Frank?”

More growling, more lunging, more posturing from all parties. An impasse that, no matter how embarrassed Frank is now, threatens to embarrass him more the longer he waits. Trish sighs. “I’ll take him.”  
  
“Yeah,” Danny agrees, “She’s not going to fight you, Frank.”  
  
Jess scoffs. “She might fight you.”

Trish tosses her head on the way out of the room. “I might,” she says, “He gives me a reason.”  
  
Frank, surprisingly, chooses that moment to trot after her.

* * *

Trish takes him up to the roof, giving Frank privacy without risking him running away. She leans against the rooftop access and looks out over the city. She’s reeling with all the latent feelings from her own past, how much she wanted privacy. How badly she wanted out of her own skin, to be anybody else, to be more of herself, honestly. Body swapping seems tough enough, but the whole getting-turned-into a dog, Trish has a hard time wishing that on anyone, even the Punisher.

Frank hasn’t come back when Jess comes up, dressed now like she’s ready to take to the streets on a case. Frank’s case, Trish guesses. Hopes, actually, if only to know when the spell wears off. If it wears off.

She doesn’t lead with that. She leads instead with the story she really wants to know more about: “You blew a door off?”

“Shut up,” Jess says, but her voice lacks bite. “His fist wouldn’t stop glowing.”  
  
Trish smirks, laughs. “I’m trying to imagine you in his costume.”

“I’m trying not to. _Constantly_.”

“Who was you?”

“Luke.” Jess seems less disappointed about that than the other aspects of the body-swapping experience. “Matt was Luke, Danny was Matt.”  
  
“And you were Danny.”  
  
“Yeah.” And that is the last Jessica wants to say about it. Guess it isn’t a long story, at least not in the face of Frank Castle being a dog. “We’re going to try and find out more about the spell. Danny still wants to put Frank in a cage.”  
  
Trish hardens at the thought. “He’s been turned into a dog, Jess.” The fight would end badly enough if he was still human.  
  
“He tried to kill someone.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He killed someone last night,” Jess reminds her.  
  
“Yeah, and he didn’t admit to trying to kill the person who did this. That doesn’t sound strange to you? Frank Castle stood up in court and admitted – proudly – to mass murder. He murdered someone last night. But he won’t admit to trying to kill one person?”

“She turned him into a dog.”

“All the more reason to admit it if that’s what he was trying to do.”  
  
Jess is quiet, considering this. She casts a glance around the rooftop, searching for Frank, trying to give herself something else to think about besides Trish’s theory. Distantly, there’s a sound of pawsteps, meaning Jess has no place to go but back to the conversation.

“I’m right,” Trish says.

Jess doesn’t agree. She doesn’t disagree either. “We’re going to find out how long the spell lasts, if there’s a way to break it.”  
  
“What’s going to happen with Frank?” Trish asks.

“That’s why I’m up here.” The silence Jess leaves speaks volumes.

Trish reads into everything Jess doesn’t say, a fresh smirk creeping across her face. “You want me to babysit.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jess says. She doesn’t love the plan, that much is evident from her face. She shakes her head, shrugs, and offers, “He listens to you.”  
  
“Doesn’t seem to hate me,” Trish concedes.

“He might even go into a cage if you asked him.”  
  
Trish laughs. She catches Jess half-smiling too, at least not frowning, which for Jess is close enough.

Frank chooses that moment to reappear, coming to stand in front of both Trish and Jess with an expectant look on his face. He’s not here to talk about what just happened; he’s looking for what comes next.

Jess is too. She looks to Trish. “You in?”  
  
Trish regards Frank. “Yeah, I’m in.”

Frank shoots a glance between the two of them, waiting to be let in on the plan.

Jess sums up for him: “You’re getting a leash.”

He’s really trying to look mean, menacing. At least, Trish thinks he is. It’s so hard to tell with the dog face.

* * *

Happy Reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Have fun with this one, Readers. Thank you for all your kindness and support. I hope you’re well.

* * *

The wall of leashes and collars dangle in front of Trish. She picks her way past the designs (nothing floral and fruity), away from the studs and leather (nothing that can be used as a weapon), and debates if a collar is the best idea. Bigger dogs tend to get harnesses in case they pull, and Trish would be shocked if Frank didn’t pull. Even for her.

She takes a black and a red collar off the wall. “Any preference?” she asks, holding them up to Frank, standing at her side. He gives her a look that begs her not to make him do this. In person, he would be cold and dismissive. “Does it look like I care?” sounds like an appropriate Frank Castle response. But in dog form, Frank just looks defeated. His humiliation is ongoing, from last night to the rooftop this morning to here. They had to jerry-rig a collar and leash from Jess’s apartment, so he’s wearing a belt double-looped around his neck and an extension cord, and a few of the shoppers keep cooing from a distance about how cute he is, how well-behaved he is. Frank could not care less about what colour his collar is going to be.

Trish puts the red one back on the wall, sticking with black. It’ll go with his coat. She gets a black leash too, but even there, the options overwhelm her. Most of them look too thin for a dog of Frank’s size. One has a hand close to the clip specifically for restraint. Trish’s guts tie in a knot from the sight. She can’t forget the fact that this is a person in a dog’s body, and putting a person on a leash, having a hand scant inches from their neck, it gives her an appreciation for Frank’s sense of defeat.

Jess comes in from the sidewalk, shoving her phone into her pocket as she goes. “Murdock finally got back to me,” she says.

Luke and Danny reconvene from the aisles where they’re standing guard. “You tell him about this?” Luke asks, glancing down at Frank.

“I told him to call me when he gets out of court.”  
  
Trish kneels down, testing the size of the collar on Frank’s neck. He does not move so much as his eyes to look at her. The collar needs some adjusting, but it’ll fit. She goes to stand but stops when she sees the muzzles on display.

She looks away to find Frank’s eyes finally on hers. That begging quality is even more intense now. There is real, genuine fear in his face. Bigger than him, even. Trish gives him a single nod and stands with only the collar and leash in her hands.

Danny notices. “You’re not going to put a muzzle on him?”  
  
“Not unless he needs one,” Trish replies coolly.

“Do you need one, Frank?” Luke asks.  
  
If Frank could roll his eyes, he probably would. Instead, he stands there and does his best impersonation of a dog statue. Trish picks up the extension cord currently serving as his leash and gets him out of there before there’s a fight in the pet store. Frank stays right at her knee the whole walk and positions himself between her and the door.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” she tells him.

Frank gives a huff, the dog equivalent of a “yes, ma’am” if she ever heard one, but he doesn’t move from his post.

* * *

Trish gets Frank collared and leashed, and they step outside into the autumn sunshine. Jessica, Danny, and Luke have lingered in quiet conversation, and one look at Danny tells Trish exactly what they were talking about.

Jessica breaks from the trio and comes over: “You got this?”  
  
“Yeah,” Trish says, “We’ll be fine.”  
  
“Call if there’s a problem.”  
  
“I’ll handle it.” Trish gives a little tug on the leash, tearing Frank’s attention away from Danny’s death stare. “Call me when you find something.”

She starts walking, half-expecting to hit the first pull of the day, but Frank has fallen right in step at her side. The leash dangles between them from how much of a lead he could be taking, but he doesn’t. He’s got a place and he’ll stick to it, at least for now.

Trish wonders about that. The acquiescence makes some sense: city’s a rough place for a stray dog, even without the looming threat of the Immortal Iron Fist. But she can’t imagine he isn’t thinking about the person who did this to him. She can’t believe he would just let the Defenders take off on the hunt without considering an escape plan. Locking him up in her office at the studio when she goes on-air seems like an option, but there’s something about leaving Frank unsupervised that seems like the deciding factor in his taking off. Audiences are one of the few things that seem to keep him in check, so long as they’re not looking to pick a fight.

The studio is almost too perfect, especially with Frank huddled at her side like a guard dog. One of the interns, Mei, stops immediately to coo, “Oh, my gosh, cute dog!” She leans down to get a closer look as Frank bears his shame. “Does he bite?”  
  
“Uh…” Trish doesn’t want to give her an invitation, not because Frank will bite but because he wouldn’t allow himself to, no matter how much getting fawned over and petted might humiliate him further. “I’m not sure yet. I just got him.”

Mei nods and rises back to her full height. “My friend has two pitties, and they are just the biggest babies. He’s probably super friendly.” To Frank, in a sweet voice, “Isn’t that right? Aren’t you just a baby?” Back to Trish: “I love him so much, oh, my God. What’s his name?”

“Castle,” Trish says.

She could have said anything and Mei would still be saying, “Awww, Castle.”

“Let me know if he needs anything.” Mei says. “You have a good day, Ms. Walker!” She raises her voice a pitch to speak to Frank. “You have a good day too, Castle.”

Frank shoots a pleading look at Trish as Mei leaves. Yes, the studio is the absolute perfect place for him.

* * *

There’s a couch in her office where Trish offers to leave him, but Frank refuses. He follows her to the booth and takes up a post outside of the door. Trish considers the height of the window, the fact that she won’t be able to watch him. She ties the leash to the bench in the hall as a precaution, one Frank accepts with what Trish thinks is a slight nod. He straightens his back in a perfect guard dog stance, but it’s eerie, almost, how easily Trish can see the Punisher doing exactly this. Standing here, on guard.

“You need anything?” she asks. “Last chance.”

Frank doesn’t move from his stance, not even to blink.

“Okay.” Trish leaves him for the booth, taking a second to check that he’s still there in the hallway once she’s out of sight. He might be able to pull that bench if he tries to run, but he won’t get very far before he gets caught.

Not that he seems to be looking to run.

Trish pulls herself away from the window, working through that thought. Because it’s true that there’s nowhere to run someone won’t catch him, but letting the Defenders go without a fight or protest seems odd. As does refusing to explain just why he ran afoul of a witch the night before. Body-swapping doesn’t sound like something Frank would punish with a bullet. Maybe she’d cursed him before? More questions to ask when she gets out of the booth.

She keeps her phone on silent, face-up on the table next to her just in case anything comes in from Jess. She’s not surprised when there’s nothing. Can’t imagine it’s easy to dig up information on actual spells that turn people into actual dogs. Trish takes off her headphones for the day and goes immediately to the window. Frank is still there, still in his guard dog position. Someone’s put a bowl of water out for him.

Trish grabs her phone and heads out, flashing him a smile. She unties the leash from the bench and picks up the bowl of water. Frank is only too eager to get the hell out of there. It’s the first time all day he uses up the entire length of the leash. Trish takes enough time to clean up the bowl in the breakroom and then heads out.

She doesn’t really know what else to do after that. Jess still doesn’t call. There’s nothing waiting at home. Food’s becoming a priority: neither of them have eaten since breakfast, and Trish isn’t sure how dog metabolisms work, but she’s pretty sure he’s gotta be hungry. Those bits of bagel that Jess weren’t much of a meal. There’s also the little matter of Frank relieving himself. Trish’s rooftop isn’t accessible in the way Jess’s is, and there’s a better chance of him walking into traffic than doing any of that in public.

There’s an off-leash not far from the studio. Trish leads the way, Frank slowly falling into step beside her. He stops every now and again to sniff the air before giving her the all-clear. Trish can’t stop herself from smiling softly every time. Macho protector bullshit gets under her skin, but there’s such conviction when Frank does it, he comes at it from this pure, honest place of it being what he does, that especially as a dog, Trish finds it almost sweet.

The other dogs at the park give Trish pause. Some of them are jumping, lots are smaller. Frank gets nipped before the leash comes off. But he doesn’t nip back. He takes one confident step forward, the first time he seems to comfortable in his own skin, and then he’s off running. Trish watches him disappear into the trees, the other dogs struggling to keep up with him.

She watches the time, watches for messages. The thought that this is a bad idea crosses her mind long enough for Trish to dismiss it outright. Frank’s not going to kill another dog. Sure enough, he bursts out of the trees minutes later, dogs still behind him, but this time it’s not a chase. Frank’s leading the pack. He brings them on another lap of the park, vanishing behind the trees.

He returns to her, breathless and panting, fielding licks and nips from the other dogs who’ve clearly found their leader. Another pitbull won’t leave, even as Trish buckles the leash to Frank’s collar. He looks like Frank - similar gray coat with white crest. A few scars through his fur from fights. He keeps trying to goad Frank back into play and seems genuinely upset for Frank to be leaving. Frank’s a shockingly good sport about it. He gets his leash on, takes a minute to nip back, to bounce around a little, at ease in a way Trish didn’t think possible. He couldn’t sit this morning, but put him in a park, and he knows all the moves, knows all the behaviours. He’s head of the pack.

“You must really like dogs,” Trish says as they walk. Frank’s panting his way through surveillance, but he takes a second to toss his head in a response. No big deal, he seems to be saying, but Trish doesn’t buy it, not for how quick he took to being out there.

She’s about to turn down a corner for the butcher shop. Whether or not Frank will eat dog food is a moot point: she’s not feeding him kibble. Her walk is stopped short when the leash catches. Frank has gone still at the street corner. He closes his mouth despite his panting and sniffs. His eyes dart through the intersection, searching.

Trish’s heartbeat spikes. “What is-?”

Frank bolts so suddenly the leash flies off her hand.

* * *

Happy reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Hope you’re doing well, Readers! Have a wonderful weekend wherever you are.

* * *

Chapter Six

Trish thinks she has an advantage. Training hones reflexes, and she feels the leash in front of her fingertips as she lunges for it. But Frank is all muscle and Punisher intelligence, and he bolts through the intersection so fast Trish loses sight of him. She’s left tracking the pedestrians trying to get out of the way of a runaway dog.

She’s off and flying, managing to get across before the light changes. She sees the gray blur of Frank’s bullet-coloured body rounding the corner for the subway platform. Trish grabs the rail to help her turn, darting between pedestrians as she descends. The whole day she’s been dismissing warnings about Frank, and now he’s taken off, about to disappear into the rush hour crowds. She’s still dismissing her own frustrations now, trying to convince herself this wasn’t the plan. Frank smelled someone, right? He stopped on that corner and sniffed someone out of the crowd, and there’s at least one person Trish can think of who would deserve Frank running full tilt into the subway station to catch.

An MTA security guard is in a holding position past the gate. Trish slows to a halt, spotting the least in the guard’s hand. He’s pulling against Frank, who’s slow to give up the chase. He’s struggling to get away, struggling to behave himself, struggling not to make those sad dog sounds that he’s making.

Trish waves a hand and calls through the crowds. “Hey!” She doesn’t have a pass, so she jumps one of the barriers, earning a ‘ma’am’ from the guard. Trish points at Frank. “That’s my dog.”  
  
“This is your dog?” he asks.

“Yes, he’s mine. He got away from me. I’m so sorry – it’s completely my fault.” She shoots a look at Frank for him to _stand down_ , that she can handle this, and that he better let her because this only ends poorly for one of them. Trish looks back at the guard and doubles down on her story. “I just got him. I’ve never had a dog before. Everybody told me to get something smaller, but I wanted a guard dog. The city, you know? Anyways, something must have spooked him. I should have known better than to bring him downtown. I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

The guard lets out a sigh. He glances around at the crowds, at the clock, at Frank. He looks back to Trish with one question: “He’s not tagged?”  
  
“No, he isn’t.” _Shit_. “But he is mine! And he’s really obedient. Aside for the running off. Just…” Trish hopes like hell he doesn’t mess this up. “Frank, sit,” she says.

Frank twists his head as far away from her as he can, every muscle in his body poised to run, to fight, to get the hell out of there. His nose twitches with a smell though, and he turns back, plopping his butt down on the pavement in an awkward sitting position.

Trish looks pleadingly at the guard. “I promise it won’t happen again,” she says.

The guard isn’t impressed, but again, the crowds and the clock are calling. He hands her back the leash. She takes it back, looping it around her hand and wrist, giving a tug on it so Frank knows he’s not getting away again. “You see that it doesn’t,” the guard says.

“Thank you,” Trish replies.

“Are you planning on riding today?” the guard asks.

Frank perks up, staring at Trish in an emphatic, “Yes,” before blinking a, “Please,” and then turning his head in a contrite, “Ma’am.”

“Yeah,” Trish says. “Yeah, we are.”  
  
The guard nods once. He gestures to the machines on the far wall. “You’ll need to pay your fare.”

“Of course.”  
  
“You’ll also need a bag.”

“A bag?”  
  
“For your dog,” the guard says. “All animals on the trains have to be carried in some kind of container.”  
  
Trish doesn’t hesitate. She digs through her purse for the folded, reusable shopping bag that was going to be used when they stopped at the deli. Now, she unfolds it, and holds it up in front of Frank, less to gauge the size then let him know what this little detour is going to cost. He gulps audibly, but he stands his ground, the smell stronger than whatever further humiliation he may endure.

“That’ll work,” the guard says.

Trish beams. “Good.” She puts the bag on the ground in front of Frank and points to it. “Come on,” she says sweetly, the way she would to a real dog.

Frank does not want to. He absolutely does not want to get into the bag.

Trish lowers her tone. “Frank, come.”

He rises from sitting. Trish grips the leash tightly in case he tries to make a break. But Frank slowly, angrily, makes his way forward and plunks himself down into the bag.

Trish wraps the sides up around him and lifts him off the ground. Frank’s anger immediately gives way to alarm. Clearly, he didn’t expect her to be able to lift him.

She smiles at him again, adjusting the strap of the bag on her shoulder. Frank’s weight presses into her side, and he stares up at her, despite himself, amazed. At the bag or her, Trish isn’t sure, but she lets his awe stand. “Thank you,” she tells the guard, and heads off to pay her fare.

* * *

“Which way?” Trish asks as she makes her way through the station.

Frank sniffs at the air, completely focused on the task. Probably a nice reprieve from thinking about being carried in useable shopping bag through the MTA. For all her sympathies, Trish can’t help wanting to get a picture. Jess is going to love this. She kind of loves this. The sheer wildness of the scenario, of the whole day, is summed up by Punisher – as a dog – getting hauled around in a nylon bag.

“Is it the witch?”  
  
No answer from Frank besides more pointing. He paws a little at the sides of the bag in excitement.

Trish gets her head back in the game, following where Frank’s nose points. She comes to a packed platform. She moves as best she can, but there’s only so much space. Whoever Frank smells must still be here though, because he’s back to fighting with the bag. Trish adjusts him on her hip, and the motion reminds him where he is, what they’re doing, how close of a call they’ve already had today.

The train arrives, cutting off Frank’s next sniff. He ducks his head from the rush of wind, tucking himself inside the bag for cover. Trish is amazed he fits. Standing upright, he seems so big, but the second he needs, Frank can folds his dog-self to be the size of a beachball. Trish ducks her face towards him. “We getting on?” she asks.

He nods to her, once, and Trish pushes herself onto the train.

Frank is back to sniffing once the train doors close, pretending as best he can to be unbothered. But it’s clear frustration is getting to him. This is particularly true when he realizes they’re stuck in the car, that there’s no clear way to close the distance with him and whoever they’re pursuing. As Punisher, he would be stalking his way through the train. He would have caught up with his target on the platform. Trish lets out a sigh, tucking her arm tight against his torso in understanding. Raw deal to be stuck in a bag with her. All that training in her apartment, and she’s as stuck as he is, probably more so because unlike Frank, it’s only fear holding Trish back. Only apprehension keeping her in the train car. The risk of ruining her precious reputation is stronger even than the risk of falling off a moving train.

“I’m sorry,” Trish says, trying to dismiss the nagging suspicion that being Trish Walker is more important to her than whoever Frank is sniffing out. She’s not helping, letting all her own bullshit cloud the situation. “You tell me when to get off.”  
Frank nods once. He keeps his eyes on the door to the front of the train, waiting.

They’re on the second stop when Frank turns his eyes up to her. Trish is already at the door and gets onto the platform in time to see the first passengers from other cars disembarking. Frank is pawing at the edges of his bag against. His mouth opens and closes as if to bark. Trish takes a step forward, searching, as if she knows what the hell to look for besides a pointed hat and a black dress, red and white striped stockings. As if witches even look like they do in the movies.

A head of blonde hair catches her eye. The face next to it – round cheeks, broad smile – Trish recognizes as Foggy Nelson. That means the blonde is Karen Page, and the man she’s holding tight at her side, it’s Matt Murdock.

Trish snaps out of her stillness to Frank scraping at the sides of her bag. She puts herself into the Nelson, Murdock, and Page’s wake, following them through the station, closing the distance to the point where Frank doesn’t feel the need to keep pawing. He’s shaking from how hard he’s trying to stay still. The trio disappear from sight at the top of the escalator, and Trish breaks into a run to keep Frank from leaping towards them.

She can feel him scratching again as they reach the exit. They’re on the sidewalk, and she’s going to lose them, they don’t stop.

“Nelson!” Trish calls.

Foggy turns around, followed by Karen. Matt resists, too fixed on getting the hell out of the station. With all the crowds around, Trish doesn’t blame him.

She comes to a halt in front of them, trying to catch her breath. She benches more than Frank, but running with him is a different story. The strap of the bag is cutting into her shoulder. She puts the bag on the ground, holding up the sides to keep him contained. The leash hasn’t left her wrist, but Trish doesn’t really trust it, not since the person or people Frank can seem to track are standing right in front of her.

Speaking of, Trish realizes that she has no idea what the hell to say. Foggy beams at her, “Miss Walker. Nice to see you.”  
  
“Hi, Trish,” Karen says.

“Trish,” Matt adds, looking a little uncomfortable.

Frank hops out of the bag. Trish yanks at the leash, but she doesn’t have to. Frank is standing between the three of them, sniffing. Trying to figure out which of the three of them he’s been tracking, because, Trish realizes with alarm, he doesn’t know. He took off running, and he doesn’t even know who he’s after.

Karen bends down. “Oh, cute dog,” she says. She holds out her hand, and Frank sniffs it, sniffs it really hard. He even gives her a small lick, earning a smile and a laugh from Karen. “What’s his name?”

Trish stops herself from saying either ‘Frank’ or ‘Castle.’ Both would seem tasteless in front of this crowd, especially given what she’s heard about Frank and Matt. “Uh…he doesn’t have one yet,” she lies. “I just got him. Matt, Jess is trying to get in touch with you.”  
  
Karen is whispering directions to Matt about where Frank is while Foggy gets his hands sniffed once, only once, followed by a dismissive huff. “Likes Karen, doesn’t like me,” Foggy says, “Guess he doesn’t have perfect taste.”

Matt holds out the hand not currently wrapped around his cane. Frank takes one sniff, then huffs. He sniffs again, huffs again, and after a third sniff along with a small nip, he tugs himself back and plants himself in a sit at Trish’s feet. He hangs his head away from the three, pissed and sullen. About what, Trish can’t even begin to imagine. Maybe he thought he was finally getting the scent of the witch. That’d be disappointing for anyone, but to have it be Matt –

“I’ve been meaning to, but we’ve been busy,” Matt says.

“Busy killing it!” Foggy adds. “You should have seen us in court today. It’s a shame Karen doesn’t write for the _Bulletin_ anymore. We deserve a front-page spread.”  
  
Matt smiles, blushing, humbled by all the talk. “It was nothing.” Then, to Trish, “I’ll get back to her later.”  
  
“We were just going to dinner to celebrate,” Karen says, nudging Matt with her elbow in support.

“Do you want to join us?” Foggy asks. “They know me.”  
  
“Everyone knows you,” Matt says.

Foggy rolls his eyes. “And everyone loves me. Except Trish Walker’s dog. But that’s alright! I’m sure we could have them put out an extra plate and a bowl on the floor.”

Frank steps back into his bag in a polite – but firm – request for them to get the hell out of there. Please. Ma’am.

“That’s alright,” Trish says, “You go and enjoy yourselves. But, uh, Matt. Give Jess a call.”  
  
“Will do,” Matt replies.

Karen waves. “Bye, Trish.”

Foggy tips an imaginary hat. “M’Lady Walker.”

Matt smiles. “Have a good night, Trish.”  
  
Karen coos excitedly as they walk away, “Good luck naming your dog!”

Trish looks down at Frank sitting in his bag. He’s staring at the trio retreating into the crowd, disappointment rolling off him in waves. “We’ll get her next time,” Trish says hopefully, tugging on the edge of the bag. “You’re not going to run away again, right?”

Frank steps out from the bag with a slight nod. “Good,” Trish says, foregoing any additional jokes. Frank’s had enough disappointment for one day. Even as she leads him away, he can’t stop looking one last time in the direction where Nelson, Page, and Murdock headed.

* * *

Happy Reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Sorry for the delay in updates, Readers! It has been a surprisingly busy month. I hope that you are all happy and healthy and safe. Thank you for sticking with this fic! Cheers!

* * *

Chapter Seven

Frank reverts back to his morning self. He follows Trish through errands – to the butcher shop for steaks, through sidewalk markets for fresh veggies. Frank hugs her knee the whole time, glaring at passersby who might get a little too close. That includes the person who asks for an autograph.

The fan beams at Frank. “Such a cute dog.”

“Thanks,” Trish says.

The compliment derails Frank’s tough-guy approach. He doesn’t dip his head or dodge the conversation. But it’s clear the encounter with Nelson, Murdock, and Page has conquered whatever self-assurance he has left. Trish recognizes resignation when she sees it, and she does her best to finish up as painlessly as possible.

Frank’s even more subdued in the aftermath. He’s intent on keeping his head down, putting one foot in front of the other, following wherever Trish leads. She could walk him all the way back to her apartment, and maybe the walk would be nice, but the feel of Frank’s weight on her leg compels her to take out her phone and arrange for a car. She half-expects to fight him on getting a ride, but he’s the first to jump into the vehicle.

Trish slides in after him, giving the driver her address. The city races past the windows. Frank doesn’t bother looking. He’s pretending to be security detail. A very serious dog on very serious business. At least until his head dips. He catches himself, pulling himself upright, but suddenly, he’s drawing his mouth open in a yawn that ripples through every muscle of his wiry body.

“Long day,” Trish comments.

Frank looks out the window then, but his head’s sinking every second.

* * *

The signs of fatigue continue when they arrive at Trish’s building. Frank’s slow to get out of the car. He actually sits during the elevator ride to her floor. He would probably say it’s because he finally figured out how, but Trish knows better. She gets him inside the apartment and unclips the leash, the collar, gesturing to the living room.

“Make yourself at home.” Trish goes to the kitchen with the bag of groceries. “I’ll get dinner ready.”

Frank stands at the threshold to the living room long enough for Trish to get a glass of wine. His eyelids are bobbing.

Trish puts her glass down. “Hey,” she says, nabbing his attention. Frank’s really trying hard to make it seem like he isn’t about to collapse. “You’re not helping anyone, pushing yourself like this. When there’s something to know, Jess’ll call. But for right now, we’re here. May as well make the best of it.” She gets out a cutting board and a knife. “The couch is comfortable. I can turn on the news if you want. You want out on the balcony?”   
  
Frank grumbles something. He about-faces and heads back to the foyer, his pawsteps stopping when he’s out of sight. Trish sighs. She can’t blame him, not really. She’d probably be doing the same thing. But being human, being an outsider, she gets the benefit of patience and clarity. Exhaustion doesn’t help anyone. Doesn’t make Jessica call any faster, doesn’t help them find the witch, doesn’t get dinner ready.

She texts Jess amidst dinner prep, stating that Frank found Murdock and, “I told him to call you.” Then she leaves her phone to roughly chop some potatoes, chives, carrots. She gets a pot and pan heating on the stovetop. She puts the news on only to think better of it: Frank’s still at the door. Listening to crime statistics would be frustrating with him cooped up like this. It’s not like he can go anywhere, and even if he could, the only scent he seems able to track is Murdock’s.

She settles on some black-and-white movie, noir by the sounds of things, and downs the rest of her wine, contemplating another glass, red this time. Dinner comes along, smells permeating the apartment. All the while, Frank doesn’t come back. Trish imagines him sitting at the front door, growing more and more tired. Falling over onto the tile until he’s laying down. But it’s already been a hell of a day - the couch is better than the tile, and dinner’s better than an empty stomach.

The steaks are done, potatoes are mashed. Trish even whips up some gravy because the Punisher – who is a dog, by the way – is her guest and hasn’t eaten since a couple pieces of bagel since the morning. And how is being a former child star the most normal part of her life now? Sister to a super-strong private eye, targeted by a freak with mind-control, privy to the uprising of immortal zombie ninjas, and now, dog-sitter for Frank Castle, the Punisher.

Trish cuts everything into smaller pieces and loads up a bowl, letting it cool a bit on the counter before going to find Frank. She finds him not-asleep, miraculously, though his sitting position by the door is held rather precariously. He jerks out of a fall when she appears and hops to standing. Pretending he’s attentive and intense even as his tail hangs between his hind legs, and his ears fall back against his head, and his eyelids droop from the effort of looking up at her.

“Dinner’s ready,” she tells him.

Frank stands there, dead-eyed and weary, silently begging her to leave.

Trish obliges him. No lecture is going to work. She heads back to the kitchen and is relieved when she hears the gentle pad of Frank’s paws on the tile behind her. She does him the courtesy of not making a scene when she puts the bowl on the floor, even steps around the island to give him privacy.

He’s past the point of hiding. The shower of compliments all day, being on a leash, the encounter with Matt and Foggy and Karen – Trish recognizes _done_ when she sees it, and Frank is definitely _done_. He chomps through his dinner. He’s probably going to trundle back to the front door and end up sleeping there because the living room is too public, too comfortable. He’s like Jess that way.

Speaking of – Trish checks her phone. Still nothing.

She looks up to hear Frank’s finished. For a moment, it looks like he’s already headed back to the door, but Trish finds him at the end of the island, a resentful look on his face. He blinks once, twice, both times long enough to rally his remaining strength, but it’s not enough. Soldiering through works for him normally, but normally, he’s a human. Dogs don’t have Punisher-levels of stamina. 

Frank anticipates her movement and takes a few steps back into the hallway. He gives his head a violent shake, as if his own exhaustion is something he can fight off. The motion almost causes him to fall over. 

“Hey,” she comes over to him, catching him by the shoulder. Frank drops onto his haunches. His mouth stretches open in a yawn that shakes him all the way to his tail, and when he’s finished, he can’t stop himself from panting through the next several breaths. Trish keeps her hand out, open-palmed, so he can lean against her, which he tries not to do, he doesn’t want to do, but every time he steps back, he falters. Every time he tries to pull his eyelids open, they close.

Frank grunts, finally tugging himself off Trish’s hand. He hits the wall, and that becomes his support. Trish heaves a sigh. “Look, can you cut the macho crap and lie down? Come on.” She rises, gesturing for him to follow towards the couch. Frank tries to move before his eyes are fully open. He stumbles a little, almost like he’s forgotten he’s walking on four legs, and he settles back into a sitting position by the wall.

The expression on his face: Trish would recognize it anywhere. She’s rallied herself behind that expression before, drawn herself so up tight that no one could reach her. She gives Frank space to get himself together, heading to the couch. She pulls off some of the throws, draws down the afghan from the back. “Come on,” she urges, patting the area.

Frank blinks slowly, begging not to do this. Begging for an alternative. He taps his front paw against the floor like he’s hitting ‘no’ on the piece of paper from this morning.

But, “What good are you right now? Jess calls, you won’t make it out of the apartment. So come on,” Trish pats the couch again, “Lie down. Get some rest. We’re not getting any closer to you figuring this out tonight by you passing out on my living room floor.”

Frank still hasn’t budged. Just as well, Trish sees a better argument. “And if you do that, I’m going to have to carry you.”

He snaps to attention. Partly-embarrassed, but mostly indignant at the thought of imposing on her, putting her to work for him. Immediately, he pulls himself off the wall and staggers over to the couch. Jumping’s a bit of a disaster. Frank nearly falls off, if not for Trish catching him by the torso and pushing him away from the edge. He trundles onto the afghan she’s spread out, his body collapsing with every step. By the time he reaches the armrest, he’s on his belly. He folds his legs up in front of him, and he puts his head down. His eyelids drop.

Trish rubs the top of his head a little, just with her knuckles. Frank lets her, or maybe he doesn’t have the strength to stop her. The skull-shaped blaze on his chest burns in Trish’s eyes, but there’s no horror, no fear. She runs her hand back past Frank’s ears, watching his eyelids close, listening to his breathing even out. Jess, Luke, Danny, and Matt all swapped back after a few days. Maybe she’ll wake up in the morning to a man on her couch instead of a dog. Maybe Jess will call with a counter-spell or a reversal of some kind. A lot can happen _fast_ where the city is concerned.

* * *

Jess’s call comes well after dinner. Sun’s set, lights are low. Frank is out like a light on the couch. Trish is running through her skincare routine. Her phone starts to vibrate on the bathroom counter. She pats her face dry and answers the call.

“Hey,” she says, eyes darting to check on Frank. He hasn’t moved except to breathe. Quietly, she closes the bathroom door behind her.

“Hi,” Jess replies. Her tone of perpetual lowkey irritation makes it impossible to determine how the day has gone.

“How’s the hunt?” Trish asks.

Jess groans, confirming Trish’s suspicions: the irritation comes from being basically nowhere. “Murdock finally got in touch with me. We’re back where I found Frank last night. He might be able to pick up some kind of a trail. Magic leaves a trace, I guess. I don’t know. How’s Frank?”

“Asleep. He needs it too. Apparently, dogs need more sleep than the Punisher.”

“He didn’t give you any trouble?”   
  
“He ran off once. Into the subway. I thought he smelled out the witch, but he actually sniffed out Nelson, Murdock, and Page. Well, mostly just Murdock.”  
  
“That’s a surprise,” Jess says sarcastically. “Castle’s always had some weird obsession with Matt. Remind me to show you the book he wrote about the Kidnapping and Manhandling of Matt Murdock.”

  
Trish doesn’t want to hear anything more about that. “He seemed surprised,” she says. “I don’t think he knew who he was tracking. And when he found out, he didn’t seem happy that it was Matt.”

“Maybe he thought it was the witch.”   
  
“Maybe,” Trish concedes. “It was the only scent he picked up on all day.”

“Castle’s obsessive.”   
  
“But he didn’t know it was Matt,” she insists, that being the sticking point. Frank sniffed his way through Karen and Foggy, and he settled on Matt. Disappointedly. “Could it be part of the spell?”   
  
Jess sighs. _You’re asking me?_ “The Punisher’s been turned into a dog. Anything’s possible.”

“Did you find anything at the magic shops?”   
  
“Yeah,” Jess says, “That basically all of them have blacklisted me. Well, Danny. For property damage.” She gives another sigh, knowing she isn’t being helpful. Trish opens her mouth to try and reassure her, but Jess comes back with, “Ask Frank about his sense of smell when he wakes up. I’ll call you if we find something.”

“Yeah. Good luck. Be safe,” Trish says.

Jess pauses, actually letting Trish’s words sink in. Trying to, at least. Then, “Bye.”

She hangs up.

Trish slips the phone in the pocket of her robe and goes back to the door. She opens it quietly and stalks out into the darkened living room. Frank is still on the couch, curled up more tightly but no less soundly asleep. His paws and ears twitch; he lets out a soft groan on his next exhale. Trish can’t stop her smile as she walks up to the edge of the couch. Carefully and quietly, she draws the sides of the afghan over Frank as he sleeps. She gives him one final brush to the head. Then she heads to bed herself.

* * *

Happy Reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Readers, dear Readers – I am so incredibly sorry for the delay in updates. My writing slowed down completely as the summer came to an end. A combination in burnout and anticipation of returning to work, I suspect. But whatever the cause, I very much appreciate your patience. This chapter was one where I knew exactly what was going to happen. I was even excited to write it, but I couldn’t focus long enough to put words on the page. Thank you for your patience. I hope you are all happy, safe, and healthy. Please, enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Eight

Luke and Danny’s heartbeats confirm that Jessica is telling the truth, but Matt still doesn’t get it. “The dog that was with Trish today,” he says, trying to make sense of what he’s being told, “That’s Frank Castle.”

“Yeah,” Jessica says. “I found him here last night. He had just killed a guy.”   
  
“The witch got to him before he could get to her,” Danny adds darkly.

“We don’t know that.”

“What other explanation is there?”

“Certainly seems like something Frank would do,” Matt offers. Though he isn’t sure he believes that either. There’s little trace of the conflict from the night before. NYPD already has the crime scene cleared up. But the location leaves Matt with more than a few questions. He can’t figure out what the witch would be doing here, nor what Frank would want with the witch unless he, too, fell victim of her tricks before. Even then, “Body swapping and animal transformations don’t really rank on Punisher’s shit list though. Are you sure he was here for her?”   
  
“Could be the guy who was after her,” Luke suggests.

“So he kills a guy looking to kill the witch,” Jessica says, testing the theory out loud.

“But then why turn him into a dog?” Danny demands. “If not in self-defence or in retribution, why?”

Jessica changes the subject rather than admit she doesn’t know. “You sense anything? Smell anything?”   
  
Matt isn’t sure what she’s asking. “Of Frank? Or the guy he killed?”   
  
“The witch.”   
  
“I wouldn’t know what to look for. The last time something like this happened, I wasn’t the one with heightened senses.”

Danny almost doesn’t pick up on the cue. He’s still fuming about Frank, his righteous indignation playing off the walls, at least until he realizes that he has a question to answer, a duty to fulfill. “I don’t remember. Those first moment with your senses were overwhelming.”

“She burnt an offering,” Luke says. “I smelled that even without super senses. You smell anything last night, Jess?”   
  
“No,” she replies. “But according to magic shops, this kind of spell wouldn't need an offering." 

“Do you know how long it lasts?” Matt asks, still not sensing anything.

Jessica’s shrug is audible thanks to her leather jacket.

The thought distracts Matt’s search, mind sputtering on the basic facts that just aren’t sticking. Frank as a dog. Frank as a dog _forever_. He wishes he had been paying close attention earlier, when he emerged from the subway. The dog had a heartbeat that struck Matt straight in the chest, but the train always disorients him. He thought it was just that: the sudden dissipation of sound, the drop in temperature, emerging into the city. Then the dog was there at his wrist, sniffing furiously. Nipping a little. Retreating. A war drum heartbeat in his chest.

Damn it, the dog really is Frank. And if the spell is a punishment, maybe it is permanent, and what then? Frank’s just a dog for the rest of his life?

Matt makes his way down the hall, focusing with renewed interest. The body swapping spell only lasted a few days; chances are, the dog spell will wear off, and Frank will get back to being his annoying human self again. Behind him, Matt hears Danny muttering to Luke about how they shouldn’t even be out here. Quieter still is Jessica having a one-sided conversation, on the phone with Trish most likely. Theirs are the only details worth noting. Everything else about the space has been wiped clear by time and forensics. If the witch was here, the only evidence of her magic is at Trish Walker’s apartment.

“You didn’t tell me you saw Trish today,” Jess calls to him suddenly, her phone call finished.

“Yeah, we bumped into each other,” Matt replies.

“So you’ve had the pleasure of meeting the new Castle.”

“Didn’t know it at the time.” But now he does, and hell if he’s going to explain how much of Frank’s demeanour he 1) recognizes and 2) remains unchanged even in a dog’s body.

“Apparently that wasn’t an accident,” Jessica continues. “I guess even as a dog, Frank’s got your number.”   
  
Matt doesn’t move an inch in her direction, needing the distance from what he knows is going to be disappointing news. “What do you mean?”   
  
“He smelled you out. Trish thought he was after the witch. Guess Castle did too, but he was only after you.”

Luke scoffs. “Well, that’s not surprising.”

“I wasn’t the only person he was interested in,” Matt says, though as he speaks, he knows that’s not entirely true. The dog – er, Frank, backed off after nipping at him, all but dismissing Karen and Foggy in the process. He may have been interested in the others, particularly Karen, but it was Matt who got him to retreat.

“So Castle can smell Matt, but he can’t smell the person who did this to him?” Danny asks. He’s trying to sound mean, but even he’s having a hard time staying serious when confronted with the absurdity of their situation.

“Maybe it’s part of the spell,” Luke offers.

“Turned into a dog that can only smell out Matt?” Jessica scoffs.

“Makes body swapping seem like a walk in the park.”   
  
“You weren’t wearing Danny’s outfit.”   
  
Danny’s heartrate ramps up defensively. “My costume is very comfortable.”

“Can we not-?” Matt says.

“Not again,” Luke laments with a sigh.

“Yeah,” Jessica agrees, likely because she sees herself as winning the debate about Danny’s costume. He isn’t so convinced, muttering about how his costume is designed for functionality and range of motion. But Jessica has moved on to, “Well, we’ve tried all my stupid ideas. Anybody else like to take a guess as to what the hell we do next?”

“We can wait to see if the spell wears off on its own?” Luke suggests. Not for the first time, if Jessica’s heartbeat is any indication. “Look, Castle’s safe and off the streets. If the witch hasn’t left town yet, she’s not leaving town at all. I say we take advantage of a Punisher-less night.”

Danny seems open to the idea. Jessica isn’t. Matt doesn’t know how he feels. The city calls. There are screams outside that he can’t hear, people who need helping, and who knows? Maybe they’ll stumble across the witch in the same way they did during their first encounter, the same way Frank probably did – by complete and utter accident. But Matt can’t help his mind wandering, picking away at the phantom itch on his wrist where the dog – _Frank_ – nipped at him.

* * *

Not having to deal with Frank should be a thrill. Matt’s thought about it often, usually when he has to deal with Frank. But the night passes by in a blur. No hard won fights, only foregone conclusions. The Defenders arriving to incapacitate drug dealers, abusers, and petty thieves to hand over to the NYPD.

They part without saying goodbye. They always do. Jessica speed walks into a crowd, Luke heads for the subway with Danny at his side. Matt heads for the rooftops in the direction of home, but he lingers for a moment, undecided about his destination, before changing course.

Getting to Trish Walker’s penthouse is a climb. Matt uses the balconies, leap frogging from one to the next with only the wall under his feet for purchase. He occasionally uses the Billy, but he’s craving that feeling of nothing beneath him. No ropes, no nets. The split seconds where he is suspended, gravity’s fingers on the verge of tightening their grip, a straight shot to the ground open beneath him in a promise of death that he defies again and again. He lands on Trish’s balcony breathless, heart racing, lips curving into a smirk at the prospect of free-falling when this is over, tempting fate anew.

He stands outside the locked sliding door, wondering for the first time what the hell he’s going to do. He has no intention of breaking into Trish’s apartment, let alone picking a fight with Frank, who is a dog, and may be a dog forever depending on what kind of spell he’s under.

Listening, Matt hears the familiar rhythm of Frank’s heartbeat. He’s there, just beyond the glass doors, sleeping. Matt intends to leave, berating himself for coming up here in the first place. For not having a reason or a plan, but just to stand and listen and then go home. He gets one step towards the balcony rail when Frank’s heartbeat perks up from inside the living room. A faint sound of a sniff catches Matt’s ears, and suddenly he knows why he came. He knows what theory he was trying to test, and he isn’t sure if having it confirmed is better or worse than living in mystery.

Paws hit the floor. There’s an interminable moment where Frank is utterly invisible to Matt’s senses, but then he’s on the approach with the balcony door, slowly. A low growl building in the back of his throat. Matt inches back to the glass, lowering on one knee so he’s at Frank’s eye level. The growl builds steadily and then cuts short. Frank shifts, collaring jangling at his neck. Matt focuses, catching the rustling of blankets. Trish, rousing in the master bedroom, settling only when Frank falls quiet. And he does, but his heart is a little hammer in his chest, a knock against the pane of glass in front of Matt’s face. A promise of death that Matt defies, mockingly this time. Frank isn’t going to kill him, and Frank knows it. He knows it so well that he tears himself away and storms back to where he came from, a rustle of blankets signalling this conversation is over and for Matt to _get the hell out of here_.

Matt smirks, backing away. He’ll get the hell out of here alright. For now.

* * *

Happy reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> I want to thank everyone for their patience. Right now, it’s been very difficult to write, and I’m hoping it’ll get better, but my updates may be a little slower than usual. 
> 
> Readers, thank you. I hope that you are happy, safe, and healthy!

* * *

Chapter Nine

Frank doesn’t wake when Trish does. She comes out to the living room to see him shuffle a little, making himself into a tighter ball, but the most movement he makes is when her trainer shows up for their sparring session. Frank raises his head, takes one look at the guy, and he flits his eyes tiredly towards Trish in a warning. “She’s gonna mess you up,” he seems to say before going back to sleep.

Trish does mess him up, as much as she can in a spar. The throws come easily, and the sound of another human being hitting the mat is better than a cup of coffee. Even when she’s knocked down, Trish is back on her feet in an instant. She takes pointers with her hands poised, ready to go again.

She’s knocked her trainer’s legs out from under him for the third time in a row when she sees Frank in the doorway. He’s mastered the art of sitting mostly, balancing himself on one hip. His tail thumps against his floor. Trish smiles at him, and Frank doesn’t stop, not until he springs up on all fours and paces out of view, embarrassed.

“I think that’s it for today,” she says.

Her trainer sees himself out while Trish puts together some breakfast. Frank stays in the living room this time, shifting his attention between the news and the balcony door. He keeps looking outside like he’s expecting someone to come swooping in, though Trish can’t imagine who. The Defenders are more concerned with who did this to Frank, and the Avengers would never think that the Punisher was holed up in a former child starlet’s apartment, about to eat bacon and toast out of a dish on the floor because he is, still, a dog.

The thought’s had a chance to settle since she’s slept. Even Frank seems a little more comfortable in his own skin (and fur). He perches on the sofa as Trish gets ready for the day, a guard on duty. Occasionally, he makes a sound when the news shows him something he’s not around to stop: a whine for a robbery, a growl when they bring up New York’s resident vigilantes. He paces once, emitting a series of bull-like huffs, and Trish can practically hear the diatribe about _those four idiots_ , her friends. “You know they’re trying to find the witch,” she tells him, to which Frank replies a grunt and a sit back on the couch. She knows what that means too, that they shouldn’t be wasting their time on him. _He’s_ fine. The city isn’t. Not that he’d expect anything less from them.

Trish doesn’t bother arguing. It’s too easy a win, what with Frank’s speech reduced to sniffs, grunts, and growls, to say nothing of his deference to her, his own personal sense of chivalry. She emerges from the bathroom in a robe, thinking nothing of it, until she notices Frank aggressively interested in the potted plants on the far side of the living, his back just so happening to be facing her.

There’s no word about the witch, no calls or texts, so Trish figures they’ll go about the day as usual. Frank doesn’t seem to have a problem with this. He’s waiting by the door when she’s ready to go. He sits, looking her dead in the eyes as she puts the leash on him, and then he’s right at her side as they walk out into the world.

They don’t have anywhere to be for a while, nothing to do, so Trish grabs a coffee and takes Frank back to the off-leash. There aren’t as many dogs today, but Frank doesn’t seem to mind. He tears off at lightspeed and disappears in the trees. Trish sips her coffee and scrolls through her News apps. She glances up to see Frank re-emerged, standing stock-still at the treeline, his nose tilted up to sniff the breeze.

She watches him, but he must have made some mistake, because he shrugs off the sniffing and gets back to running around. She asks him jokingly, just trying to make conversation, when he rejoins her, and receives only a head shake in response. Bashful, almost. Like he was made a mistake and he’s sorry he got her all worried, and what are they standing around for? Let’s go.

Trish checks her phone on the way out, sighing despite herself. She catches Frank’s eye as she puts her cell back into her pocket. “Nothing yet,” she says, “Unless they’ve all been turned into dogs too.”   
  
Frank huffs dismissively, as if the dog thing is a privilege, and there’s no way Jess, Luke, Danny, or Matt would qualify for the same kind of treatment. Trish can’t figure out if it’s because they wouldn’t go so far as him or they’d just be that lucky. For some reason, she dismisses both out of hand. She really can’t get behind Frank trying to kill the witch, especially when he won’t admit to it.

“The last time she cast a spell on them, they were bodyswapped,” she muses aloud, “And that was just to slow them down. Turning you into a dog hasn’t slowed you down though. If anything, you’re faster.”

Frank gives an affirmative grunt, his eyes fixed on the way in front of them.

“She didn’t say anything to you?” Trish asks.

They reach an intersection and wait for the lights to change. Frank sits by her leg, his eyes tracking the pedestrians around them, triple-dog daring them to try anything. Trish tugs on the leash to get his attention. “Hey, did she say anything?”

Frank shakes his head but not to say no. More to say that yeah, he heard her the first time, and nothing more than that.

The light changes. Frank is walking before Trish, trying to put some distance between them. She rolls her eyes, recognizing the tactic. “You know, Jess does the same thing when she doesn’t want to talk. Usually, it’s because she’s embarrassed. Are you embarrassed, Frank?”   
  
No response. Frank doesn’t look over his shoulder or give his little doggy huff or even miss a beat in walking. Just like Jess. And also like Jess, in pretending not to care, in feigning obliviousness, he gives himself away.

“She did talk to you,” Trish guesses, “And it wasn’t because you were trying to kill her. So what was it, Frank? If being a dog isn’t a punishment, what-“

Frank stops dead in his tracks, his nose pointed up. He sniffs at the air again. His lips draw back slightly, puffing up around his canines, and a low growl emerges from his throat.

Trish scans the street, then looks up towards the rooftops where Frank’s nose has settled. She grips the leash in case Frank tries to take off. “What is it?”

He barks. The sound and severity of his tone catches Trish off-guard. She jumps a little, her eyes searching along the rooftops for whatever he’s sniffing. “Where are they, Frank?” she asks, glaring at the sky. There’s someone up there, and whoever it is, Frank doesn’t like them.

She’s still looking when he decides, suddenly and sharply, not to care. He gives one indignant _huff_ and gets back on track, temper subsiding only in response to Trish’s slow response. She isn’t so quick to give up on their pursuer, and while she wants it to be the witch if only to have a lead, yesterday’s adventure on the subway tells her it’s probably someone else.

Trish catches up to Frank’s side. “Is it Murdock again?” Rooftops aren’t really his style during the daytime, and what the hell would he be doing in her neighbourhood? He has a day job, not to mention a witch to catch.

Frank doesn’t want to talk about it. For the first time, he’s pulling on the leash, just enough for her to quicken her pace. He leads her into a crowd of people, and Trish’s objection dies in her mouth when she feels how deftly he’s navigating. He’s got all the ins and outs of the crowd worked. They emerge on the other side, and Frank slips around a corner where he stops, giving Trish a moment to catch her breath.

The ground under her feet rumbles with a passing subway train. Again, her eyes go up, looking for a tail on the rooftops, even as the realization dawns on her that there’s an awful lot of noise, traffic, and vibrations in this one corner of the Upper East Side. Frank sits amidst it all, his ears twitching with every new tire scrape, brake screech, and raised voice. Amidst all the clamour, one word comes to Trish’s mind: smug. He looks smug. Like he found the one corner in the whole world, he claimed it, and now Murdock or whoever is going to be sorry they ever thought to challenge him.

Trish gives him a few moments of victory or whatever before she takes the lead, getting them back on track for the studio. Frank abides, his temper giving way to that chivalry again. “Yes, ma’am; no, ma’am,” and all that business. They cross the street. No sooner have they hit the sidewalk then Frank barks, and Trish gets herself bumped into.

Sunlight makes the dark lenses in Murdock’s sunglasses glint scarlet. “Sorry,” he says.

“Matt Murdock,” Trish says, unsurprised.

He feigns the few seconds it would take a truly unsuspecting person to place her voice. “Ms. Walker.” To Frank, who is growling, “Frank.” Then, because he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t know what he’s doing, “I assume.”

“How goes the witch hunt?” Trish asks over Frank. His growl is gathering into a roar.

“We’re chasing down a couple leads.” An answer so vague it must be another lie. He isn’t here for the witch: he’s here to see Frank. Sure enough, “How’s dogsitting?”   
  
“Great,” Trish replies honestly. “The only trouble he seems to give me is when you’re around.”   
  
Frank stops growling at that. He sidles over and presses his chest against Trish’s leg, to hold her back, it feels like. This isn’t her fight. And yet there’s the word in her head again: _smug_. This time, Trish gets to feel it too.

Murdock dips his head so the wide red lenses of his glasses are on Frank. Trish sighs, eyes flitting between the two of them, Frank and Murdock both, the two of them locked in some kind of silent pissing contest they think the rest of the world can’t see. “Look, if you just came here to gawk-“

“I’m not,” he says. A smile – wicked, thousand watt, bright enough to light his eyes behind his sunglasses – overtakes his face. “Well, not just to gawk.” Frank bares his teeth at that, his chest pressing even more tightly into Trish’s leg. Murdock’s smile doesn’t waver. He grips his cane to his chest and continues, “Jessica told me about yesterday. I was curious.”

Trish nods. “He can definitely smell you. I think you’re the only person he can smell.”   
  
Frank shoots her a look. She wasn’t supposed to say that. Trish doesn’t know what he’s trying to hide though. They both know. They both have to know. Why else would they spend so much time on growls and glares and, in Frank’s case, writing books about detaining the other?

“The witch turned him into a dog and made it so I was the only one he could smell,” Murdock says, testing the theory out loud. “Quite the curse you got yourself put under, Frank.”   
  
“I don’t know that it is a curse,” Trish admits.

Frank gives a pinched sort of whine. He sinks back into a sit, no longer touching her. Trish lets him sulk. They aren’t getting anywhere by mulling over this in silence.

“What do you think it is?” Murdock asks.

“I don’t know,” Trish replies, “But when you find the witch you can ask her.” She gives Frank a small tug on the leash, but she doesn’t have to: he’s already ready to walk again. “Happy hunting, Mr. Murdock.”

Frank barks as they take their leave.

* * *

Happy reading! 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica’s on the hunt for a witch. She finds the witch’s most recent victim, Frank, instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone! 
> 
> I’m not sorry that this took so long. I mean, I am, but I’m really trying not to dwell on that. It’s not helpful or productive. So I will instead thank you, dear Readers, once again for your patience and your readership, as well as the overwhelming, kind support I’ve received. Thank you! I hope this installment finds you well, and that you are safe, happy, and healthy. Cheers!

* * *

Jessica is on her way out of the office when Trish appears. Frank Castle hugs her knee like the bestest damn dog on the planet, and he knows it, staring up at Jessica with his big black eyes and natural pitbull grin.

“Did you get him a spiked collar?” Jessica asks.

“Yeah. Looks good, right?”

Frank stares at her expectantly, like, “Yeah, Jones. I look good, right? Tell your best friend that I look good.”

Jessica doesn’t dignify that with a response. Frank seems content with her silence on the subject, his tail giving a little wag against the floor. “Getting sick of dogsitting?”   
  
“No,” Trish says, and she’s not lying, “It’s been a good couple of days. I just thought we’d stop-in, see if you had any leads. I hadn’t heard from you.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I was waiting to hear back from this one shop. Murdock was able to identify some of the herbs she burned in her offering, and we traced them back to this one place in Queens. Danny’s calling him the team bloodhound.”   
  
“Bet he loves that.”

“Danny’s gonna get punched,” Jessica says, a little amazed that Matt hasn’t taken a swing yet. “Anyways, I was just going to head over there.”   
  
Frank looks up at Trish just for the quickest of seconds. She doesn’t even see him move, but she says, “Great. We’ll come with you.”

Jessica isn’t so sure. “He’s not going to start anything?”

Trish shrugs. “No. I think he’ll finish things though.”

Frank’s tail gives another happy wag against the floor in approval.

Jessica steps out of the office, locking the door behind her. “I don’t think you two should hang out anymore.”

The way Trish and Frank glance at each other does nothing to convince Jessica otherwise. Four days together has them colluding. They both give Jessica a look wondering why she would want that. “Exactly,” is all Jessica says. No explanation needed.

* * *

The exterior of the shop has been done up to resemble an enchanted tree, complete with natural wood paneling and branches. The windows are gated, but that only adds to the place’s mystique. Artifacts, ingredients, and books congest every pane, covering everything from offerings to charms to an all-black section that Jessica assumes is reserved for curses.

Jessica tries to not notice how the door doesn’t match the surrounding edifice. The wood there is too new, freshly varnished, a contrast to the warm, dull wood on the shopfront. She isn’t keen on coming back here, not after the body-swapped property-damage incident. But, of course, this is the place where the witch is getting her supply of twenty-seven magical herbs and spices and whatever else she uses. It’s just Jessica’s luck. She wonders what Matt’s visit was like, but then realizes Matt might not have even gone inside, and even if he did, he was in costume that night. Jessica looks exactly the same as, well, Luke did the last time she was here. Guess she has that going for her at least.

She stalks ahead of Trish and Frank, trusting Trish enough to know that she won’t get followed. She cases the place, doing a full walk around the exterior. There is one side door and one back door; Jessica stops at both and drops a handful of the powder from her pocket. She feels like an idiot, sprinkling brick dust and salt, but she consoles herself with the thought that she feels like less of idiot than she did in Danny’s costume. So there’s that.

Back at the front, Frank and Trish are waiting by the door. He’s hugging Trish’s knee, dodging customers on their way out. “Oh, so cute!” One says. Frank gets closer to Trish, like he’s a security detail, like he’s on duty, though as the customers keep cooing, he glances over at Jessica, daring her to say something about it.

Jessica’s too busy feigning nonchalance to care. She walks up to the shop, past Trish and Frank, opens the door and is greeted by, “Welcome to- nope. Not again. Please, leave, or I’ll call the police.”

“Relax,” Jessica says. She glances at the woman’s nametag. Oh, right: “Starr.”

Starr shrinks closer to the closed office door. “Are you alone?” she asks, glancing around. “Are your friends with you? That guy with the glowing fist?”   
  
Jessica tilts her head in Trish’s and Frank’s direction as they come through the door. Starr doesn’t look reassured. She doesn’t take her hand off the office doorknob, just in case she needs to put another call to the NYPD. “We just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Okay,” Starr says. “But if that guy with the magic hand shows up-“

“He won’t.” Jessica doesn’t mention that she’s got magic hands of her own. Or that Trish does. Really, everyone Jessica knows could take this whole building apart, less a matter of skill than simply of time. “The witch who body-swapped me and…” she rolls her eyes, unable to think of a better word for getting the point across. Or for getting the information she needs. “…my friends. I’m trying to find her. She bought some items here for a ritual that turned someone into a dog.” 

“Is that the dog?”   
  
“Yeah,” Jessica says.

Trish interjects before Frank can stare a hole through Jessica’s chest. “We think she might be in danger,” she says.

Starr doesn’t take her hand off the office door. Does she still think she’ll have to call the cops? Jessica starts a slow walk around the counter, pretending to eye the tins of herds and tea on the walls. She lets Trish continue to do the talking, holding Starr in her periphery the entire time. “The other spell she cast wore off in a couple of days, but this one hasn’t. All we want is to make sure she’s safe and find out how to turn our friend back into a human.”   
  
Jessica breaks her patrol to stare back at Trish. “You did not just call him a friend.”   
  
Trish’s expression shifts between _we’ll talk about this later_ and _what the hell else would you call him?_ Jessica expects Frank to join in smugly, but he isn’t hugging Trish’s knee. He’s trailing in Jessica’s wake, staring at the office door.

Starr notices. She opens her mouth, closes it; she takes her hand off the doorknob but doesn’t move from where she stands. “We get a lot of people in here. But I can keep a lookout for her.”   
  
“That would be great,” Trish says, “Considering we didn’t tell you what she was buying.”

Jessica inches closer to the counter, planning on running intercept on Frank when she realizes that Trish has loosened her hold on the leash. Starr reaches for the doorknob, checking that it’s locked, before saying, “Well, you can leave me a list.”

Trish positions herself in front of the front door. “We’re not going to have to do that.”

“Open the office,” Jessica says.

Starr stares between the two of them, struggling to speak, but she’s not sure what she’s supposed to say. She finally settles on, “I’m calling the cops.”   
  
“Good. Your phone’s in the office.”   
  
“I think you guys should leave.”   
  
Jessica keeps waiting for Frank to growl, but he’s just standing there in the middle of the room. Weird for him to show restraint, especially against someone who turned him into a dog, but maybe Trish is right that this isn’t a curse. Or maybe spending time with her has given Frank a new demeanour. Or maybe he’s just waiting for that door to open. Jessica decides to assume it’s the latter.

She hops over the counter. Starr shrinks, but she doesn’t step away from her post. “You’re going to open the door or I’m going to tear it off the hinges,” Jessica says.

“I’ll call the cops!”   
  
“And I’ll call my billionaire friend to buy this whole building. Then I’ll call my lawyer friend to sue you.” For what? Jessica doesn’t know. But Murdock would never take a case against a retail employee trying to help her friend. He’d be more likely to represent Starr’s lawsuit against Jessica for intimidation, and he’d do it pro bono.

But Starr doesn’t need to know that.

Frank growls. Jessica looks to see him backing away. She sniffs, trying to pick up the smell of an offering, then listens, trying to hear a spell being uttered. She searches the walls, trying to remember the magic crap she learned to counteract spells. A giant tin of Protection Powder stares down at her from the wall.

She grabs it, shoulders Starr out of the way as gently as possible, and then kicks the office door open.

A bright light comes at her from inside the office. Jessica rips off the lid of the tin and tosses the contents inside.

The powder catches on the light. Jessica steps out of the way, but the crash blasts backwards, straight into the office. The building shakes from the impact. Items fall off the shelves. Jessica grabs two more tins; she doesn’t even read the label before she takes off the lids and puts herself back in the doorway.

“Hey!” Trish shouts.

Starr is holding up a statue towards Jessica, a spell pouring out of her. She calms up as Frank growls some more, this time in her direction. “I would shut up if I were you.”   
Jessica nods her thanks. She turns her attention back to the office, as a protection-powder covered figure bumps into her, running around the counter to the side door.

Trish is off and running before Frank. Jessica puts the tins down. “It’s fine,” she says, though Trish doesn’t let up. Not until the side door opens, and the sound of a body being thrown back by an invisible barrier shakes the shop anew.

Starr’s arm falls, but Jessica still rips the talisman out of her hand. “You try anything else, I will unforgivably curse you so hard, I swear.” The threat works, probably thanks to Frank still standing there in the foyer of the shop. He isn’t growling, but he’s imposing, this utter beast of a dog with a skull-shaped crest on his chest. Jessica walks around the counter to where Trish stands over the witch, who is lying, powder-covered and groaning, on the floor.

“You got about five seconds to start talking before I pull more of these tins down and seeing what they do,” Jessica says.

The witch glares at her. “You start pulling tins, I start working spells.”   
  
“Hey, Hermione, you’re covered in protection powder right now. Any spell you pull isn’t going to work,” Trish says. "I assume." She looks to Jessica for affirmation, but Jessica can only shrug. She assumes too. 

“All we want to know if how to break the dog curse you put on our-“ Jessica stumbles over the word again and settles on something worse, “-Frank.”

Trish raises a brow and looks back at her. “Our Frank?”

Jesus, she looks like a proud mom. Jessica rolls her damn eyes and gets back to the matter at hand: “How do we break the curse?”

The witch glances between her and Trish, seriously confused. She coughs a little on the champagne colour-ed powder covering her lips and neck. “It’s not a curse,” she says.

The bells over the door to the shop rattle. “What do you mean it’s not a curse?” Jessica asks.

The door opens. A small group of shoppers enter, laughing amongst themselves. “What do you mean it’s not a curse?” she asks.

Starr runs around the edge of the counter as the door to the shop shuts. “Get back to work,” Jessica says, dismissing her. She knows how this looks.

“Uh, your friend the dog?” Starr says. “He just ran out of here.”

Trish’s face falls. She rushes towards the front entrance and out of the store.

Jessica leaves her to deal with Frank. She kneels down next to the witch. “If it’s not a curse,” she asks, “Then what the hell is it?”   
  
The makings of a smile reveal themselves on the witch’s face: not smug, not mocking. Soft, sweet, mildly entertained. Less that Jessica doesn’t know, but because of the promise of Jessica’s reaction when she finds out.

* * *

Happy Reading!  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> I don't know how this happened. I don't know how, after weeks of creative blocks, I managed to get two updates done for fics. I also successfully made macarons tonight, so basically what I'm saying is that everything is a miracle right now. I feel good, and I feel disoriented, and I hope you enjoy this.

* * *

Chapter Eleven

Matt gets the call as they’re wrapping up at the office for the day. Karen and Foggy are debating about dinner – her favourite Mexican place versus the all-you-can-eat Pakistani buffet that Foggy loves – and they bemoan his absconding to the hallway to take the call.

“We need a tie-breaker!” Foggy says.

“Uh…rock-paper-scissors,” Matt suggests, closing the door behind him.

He answers but doesn’t dare speak until he reaches the stairwell. The debate rages on within Nelson, Murdock, & Page. Meanwhile, Jessica tells him, “We found her. The witch.”  
  
“I have a name,” he hears a voice say in the background.

There is a pause where Jessica is clearly rolling her eyes. “We found the witch. Her name is Hetty. Do you want to say hi, Hetty?”  
  
“Hi,” Hetty says.

Matt turns his attention back to Jessica. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. She’s been surprisingly cooperative.”  
  
“Is _she_ alright?”

“Yeah.” Much to Jessica’s dismay. “Trish and I caught her at that magic shop we came to after she body-swapped us. She was making a run for it.”  
  
“I have some people after me,” Hetty explains.  
  
“No surprise there,” Jessica tells her.

“I want to talk to her,” Matt says.

Jessica groans, but she puts him on speaker. “Trish is here too.”

Matt’s blood runs cold. Jessica, Trish, and Hetty are on the line, but, “Where’s Frank?”

A pause. Matt doesn’t like the sound of that. He starts down the stairs, leaving Foggy and Karen’s voices behind him. He’s happy to be on the move, anticipating Trish saying, “Frank took off. We don’t know where he is.”  
  
“Was it another spell?” Matt asks.

“No,” Trish says. And that’s all she says.

Matt steps out of the door onto the street, one ear on the call, the other on the alleys, the side streets, the sidewalks. There are dogs and cats and people, but none of them are Frank. He leaves his feet to do the walking, his mind reeling through possible locations. “Is he alright?”  
  
“He’s fine,” Hetty says.

He can hear her smiling, and even if he couldn’t, Jessica’s voice comes back, more irritated than before. “He is. He took off because I was asking what kind of spell was put on him.”  
  
“It’s not a curse,” Trish says.

“If it’s not a curse then what is it?” Matt asks. “What did you do to him, Hetty?”  
  
The silence is weird. Matt imagines an exchange of glances, heartbeats locked in a battle of warnings, threats, and wonderings about what they tell him. Hetty returns, her words too carefully chosen for them to be the full truth despite Jessica and Trish’s presence. “Frank Castle saved my life,” she says, “The other night.”  
  
“He killed a man.”  
  
“Who would have done worse to me. If he’d had the chance.”

Matt can only imagine. Jessica still holds a grudge about the body-swapping, and she’s back in her own body. Hetty’s tricks were bound to piss off someone with less honourable intentions. “You’re lucky someone was there.” Even if Frank shouldn’t have killed a man.

“That’s what I told Frank. I was grateful.”  
  
“So why did you turn him into a dog?”  
  
Hetty sighs, and there’s another pregnant pause. “I wanted to give him a gift,” she says, “To return the favour for saving my life. He said he didn’t want anything, that he was just doing his duty. But I knew there had to be something. Guys like Frank Castle, they want. They’re just good at pretending they don’t.”  
  
“You think Frank Castle wanted to be a dog.”

“I think Frank Castle is lonely,” Hetty says. She lets that hang there in the air for the rest of them before, “And I think he doesn’t know what to do with that as a human. So I turned him into something that invites affection, invites tenderness, invites love.”  
  
Jessica and Trish are silent. Matt tugs at the knot of his tie, stretching his hearing as far as it can go to no avail. Hetty doesn’t offer further explanation, leaving him to say, “You thought Frank could use a little friendship, so you turned him into a dog.”  
  
“We’re far more likely to give softness to animals than we are to other humans. Or to ourselves.”  
  
Jessica scoffs; Matt bristles. They all choose to ignore that statement. Matt quickens his pace, searching more hurriedly, hoping for a reason to get off the call before he has to ask. But there is no time, and he has to know, “Why can he smell me?”

Another loaded pause. Matt pulls himself out of the flow of pedestrian traffic and waits for an answer or an indication that he’s been heard, an _anything._ Even fully focused, all he can hear is unintelligible hissing. Jess and Trish and Hetty locked in fierce argument about what to say, how to say it.

Matt puts on his best Devil’s voice: “Why-?”

“It’s one of the spell features,” Hetty says. “I made it so that he can only smell a person that he…”

“Trusts,” Trish chimes in.

“Doesn’t hate,” Jessica says.

“Hetty?” Matt asks. “What is it, really?”

“I think…Frank should be the one to tell you,” is her only reply.

“He ran away,” Trish adds, “Just as Hetty was explaining the terms of the spell to Jess.”

“That sounds like Frank,” Matt says. “It also sounds like a very good reason for you to tell me what’s really going on. Frank isn’t going to explain. He can’t even explain. And he wouldn’t even if he wasn’t a dog.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hetty says in an all-knowing tone of voice.  
  
Matt rolls his eyes at her optimism, at how cryptic she’s being. He leaves the alley and walks, thinking about the places where Frank Castle would go. He has a safehouse in the area. Matt figures he’ll start there. “I’ve got to find him. Unless one of you decides to-“

Trish says, “He’ll probably find you.”  
  
“Why?” Matt demands. “Frank Castle doesn’t trust me. And saying he doesn’t hate me isn’t exactly a reason for him to come track me down.”

“You’re the only person he can smell. And he can smell you through a packed subways station. He’s going to find you.”  
  
“And then what? What changes him back? Or do you want to leave that for Frank to tell me that too?”

They don’t even pause this time. Bad sign. “Just find him,” Jessica snaps.

“Tell me why. Hetty, please – why me?”  
  
“That wasn’t up to me,” she says. “That part was up to Frank. Same with changing back. It’s all up to Frank.”  
  
“Find him,” Trish adds more firmly.

Matt hangs up on them. He puts his phone back in his pocket and leaves the street, heading for Frank’s safehouse.

* * *

Jess disconnects the call. The quiet in the magic shop office eats away at her.

Trish, too: “We should have told him.” She reconsiders, flustered. “Shouldn’t we? I would want to know.”  
  
“Would you want us to tell?” Jessica asks.

When Trish doesn’t answer, Hetty adds, “Now imagine you’re a man called the Punisher.”

“I can’t believe you turned a guy into a dog so that he could get a little affection.”

“Have you been softer on Frank Castle since he got turned into a dog?” Hetty asks.

“That’s irrelevant,” Jessica says, “And shut up.”  
  
Hetty smiles. “Sounds like he’s not the only one who could use a little affection,” she mutters.

* * *

The safehouse is empty. Traps are still in place, and Matt delights in dismantling all of them, in trashing Frank’s ammo, stealing the firing pins from the weapons that have them. He comes out the front door thinking that Frank’ll jump on him, but there’s no dog running anywhere nearby.

Foggy calls; Matt lets it go to voicemail. He can’t talk right now. There’s nothing to say. He has a Frank to find. Or a Frank to find him, sniff him out of the tens of millions of people in New York City because that just how magic works. And how Frank works, apparently.

Matt hops up to a rooftop, surveying the streets. He hears dogs, but he knows they’re not Frank, and he refuses to interrogate that beyond thinking that if Frank was looking for him, he wouldn’t be bounding around like a regular dog. Frank would be silently creeping up on him. Which he isn’t – the rooftop behind Matt is empty, and the rest of the walk is equally Frank-less.

Another two calls from Foggy, voicemails saying they’re heading to Josie’s after dinner. Clouds are gathering. Matt smells rain coming in off the Hudson. He left his jacket back at the office from leaving in a hurry. He buries his hands in his pockets, tucks his face behind the fluttering lapel of his jacket, and heads for home. If Frank wants to find him, Frank knows where to find him. And Frank _doesn’t_ want to find him.

The rain does. It comes down in a torrent as he’s coming down the street past his building. Passersby head under awnings or into shops. Matt tracks the muffling of their heartbeats through the walls, through the rain. The streets go up in smoke around him, a fog thickening around his perception from the white noise of the weather.

He walks past the steps to his building, the whole of the city fading under the hum of rainfall. He comes up to the corner, to Josie’s, but his feet don’t make the turn. The raindrops sound different when they hit the puddles on the asphalt, as they race for the sewer drains. Matt stops in his tracks, soaked and cold and disappointed. His hands fall out of his pockets and hang at his sides, fingers forming themselves into fists and releasing. This isn’t a fight, but it feels like it should be.

So Matt decides to make it one.

He goes to step off the curb, straight into traffic.

A growl emerges out of the rain, stopping short when a jaw clamps down on the back of his pant leg. Matt gets pulled back and is nearly thrown onto the pavement, but he catches himself, and Frank, on the way down. Frank barks at him and tries to get away, but Matt holds fast to his studded collar, the leash snapping around his forearm in the midst of their struggle.

Frank barks again, but he doesn’t bite. He just shakes his head, trying to break loose. Matt lets go of his collar, gripping the leash tight for when Frank inevitably tries to bolt away.

“You been following me a while?”

Frank growls, barks. He pulls on the leash. Passersby take notice, giving them a wide berth on the curb. Matt twists the leash around his arm twice more, listening to Frank’s paws skid on the concrete. His heartbeat is cannon fire inside of his chest.

The growl stops suddenly. Frank plunks down on the pavement in a sit, stoic.

“Foggy and Karen are inside Josie’s,” Matt says. “Maybe I should call them. I bet they’d love to come out and say hi.”

A shake runs through Frank: pure fury. Matt tugs on the leash. “Come on,” he says, tossing his head towards his steps.

Frank hesitates, but Matt doesn’t get a chance to threaten calling for Foggy and Karen again. Frank gets his ass up and starts walking towards the steps of Matt’s apartment building. 

* * *

Happy reading! 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Readers, dear Readers, I keep saying thank you, and I won’t stop thanking you until all my WIPs are done. I hope you are all safe, happy, and healthy. 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day, lovelies! Cheers!

* * *

Frank bounds immediately down the hall into the living room, where he shakes the rain from his coat. The smell of wet dog wafts through the space, spurred by Frank’s frenetic movements. Matt listens to the droplets spattering on the hardwood, splashing against the back of the chair. There’s a wet slap of paws as Frank surveys the space. He paces a circle through the living room, pops into the bedroom, his smell following, wafting everywhere he goes.

Matt loosens his tie, doffs his soaked jacket. His shirt underneath is soaked through; he unbuttons it, heading for the bathroom. Frank bounds around behind him, up the stairs to the loft door where he scrapes his paws like an actual dog to be let outside. Matt ignores him. He pulls off his shirt and drapes a towel over his shoulders, emerging to find Frank trundling down the stairs.

Frank shakes again as Matt moves past him. Dog-scented water spatters against Matt’s pant legs.

“That the best you got?” Matt asks. Frank gives him a growl and trots away. The way he breathes is reminiscent of guttural muttering, the way the real Frank would sometimes carry on an argument under his breath.

“Hey,” Matt says, “You want to go to the SPCA for the night?”  
  
A grunt. Frank drifts around the far end of the couch and weaves into the kitchen. Matt leaves him to the faux reconnaissance, the aimless wandering, the _posturing._ “Little excessive, don’t you think?” Matt has to laugh at that, because excessive is exactly what Frank is, even as a person.

He goes to the closet and grabs a dry sweatshirt, pulling it overhead as the sound of paws come through the bedroom door. Frank jumps his wet self up onto the bed, paws dragging purposefully through Matt’s blankets to inflict as much of the wet dog smell as possible. 

Matt doesn’t miss a beat. He rushes Frank, succeeding in getting him off the bed before he can shake some more. Frank hops down and rushes around the bed, bounding out of the room.

“Aw, come on, Frank,” Matt follows after him, “Don’t be an asshole. You came to me, remember? Saved me from walking into traffic. That was real sweet of you.”

He listens as Frank comes round from behind the couch to stand in the middle of the living room, war drum heart pounding away inside his barrel chest. He’s so tense Matt can hear his muscles roping under his skin, tightening further still. Frank shakes with the effort of holding himself back. His growl grows low in his throat, threatening. When Matt takes one step forward too many, Frank barks.

The excess grates on Matt. Frank gives him hell all the time, every time, but never like this. Not when Frank’s the one who sought him out. Frank’s shown up here before, tail between his legs (figuratively), trying to forge an alliance, but Matt supposes those times were fully on Frank’s terms. Getting transformed into a dog because a witch thinks you’re lonely eliminates some of that agency.

And Frank’s pissed, sure, but it can’t be the dog thing. He’s stayed with Trish this whole time. The only reason he took off was because of the spell.

Matt fixes on that point. “Jessica called me. She told me about the spell, the terms. The witch, Hetty, she thinks you’re lonely. Are you lonely, Frank? That why you were following me?”

Growling. Frank’s paws scrape on the hardwood but ultimately hold their position. He doesn’t stop growling, but he doesn’t let himself charge either.

Matt rolls his eyes. “We both know you’re not going to-“

Another bark, wetter, this time. More guttural. _Meaner_ , or trying to be. Matt can still hear Frank’s heartbeat, and he knows from all their fights what comes next isn’t near as bad as Frank’s making it out to be. He sighs, nonplussed. “You keep that up, someone’s going to call in a noise complaint. You looking to get picked up by Animal Control?”  
  
Frank barks again, and Matt hears him, loud and clear: _we both know you’re not letting Animal Control take me._

“So maybe I won’t let them take you,” Matt says, taking another step forward. Frank’s paws scrape on the floor in preparation to charge, but still, he doesn’t. “This isn’t just loneliness, is it, Frank? You haven’t been alone: you’ve been with Trish, with Jessica. You could have found anyone else to take you in.”

Realization dawns on him, like everything else involving Frank, without words, only a feeling, Deep-seated, like a muscle pain, like the last part of a wound to heal. Matt doesn’t want to fight Frank like this, and that was exactly Hetty’s intention.

Matt lowers, putting himself on Frank’s level. “Come here,” he says softly, the way he would to a feral dog. The way he has to feral dogs, the ones he meets on patrol.

Frank growls the way they all do, like he’s about to tear Matt’s throat out. He stays in his lunge, muscles shaking under his skin, ready to charge.

Matt reaches out a hand. He keeps his voice soft. “Come here, Frank.”

He isn’t fast enough. Frank is across the room in an instant, his mouth wrapped around Matt’s forearm. His teeth are sharp, serrated. Even through the sweater, Matt can feel them. Any pressure from the jaw and Matt’s arm would be slashed to ribbons, right to the bone.

But Frank doesn’t bite down. He growls, he snarls; he opens his mouth and closes down on Matt’s arm again, still not biting. Matt stays there, holding his arm in Frank’s mouth, waiting for that ferocious pace of Frank’s heart to settle. For him to give up the pretence on his own.

He doesn’t drop Matt’s arm, but eventually his heart rate slows. The growling moves out of the depths of his chest, back into his mouth, rolling through the sweater into Matt’s arm. Matt takes that as his cue. He moves his other arm slowly from his side, raising it to Frank’s head. The growl bobs in Frank’s throat in warning. Matt gives him time, only moving when he can feel that shift in his own gut that it’s alright.

His fingers find the space behind Frank’s ear. He gives a small scratch. Frank’s growl catches in his throat. He lunges forward, driving his jaw towards Matt’s chest. Matt stops using his nails, rubbing with the pads of his fingers instead. He listens as Frank’s growl softens into more of a purr. Menacing enough to a casual bystander, but not to Matt.

He places his hand on the crown of Frank’s head. The fur is soft and damp and warm. Matt gives it a soft ruffle, then smooths his palm back down Frank’s neck.

The growl stops completely. Frank’s heartbeat hits a different pace. His breathing comes in ragged bursts around Matt’s arm once, twice, then he finally opens his mouth and drops Matt’s arm. He stays standing there, his muscles taut and shaking now in a different way, for different reasons.

Matt puts his other hand to Frank’s neck. He keeps his fingers open, brushing over the fur lightly with his palms. Frank’s heartbeat slows. His head hangs ever-so-slightly between Matt’s arms, the short fur on his cheeks brushing against the sweater. Embarrassment, Matt recognizes too easily. He doesn’t dwell on it, wondering if the world looks to Frank the way it does to him. Heartbeats, smells, sounds from several blocks away. Hell of a transition to make alongside being on four legs, covered in fur.

He gives a scratch, just one. Frank gives a sigh. His pulse slows even more, perking back up a little reflexively. He stops fighting, but the stillness is eerie. Matt feels him retreating, and he scratches Frank’s neck again, bringing him back slowly.

Frank sits suddenly. Matt brushes his hand down the full length of him, then goes back to his head and neck. He leans his face close, right next to Frank’s jaw, listening for any signs of a growl or a bark, a sign of indignation. There’s nothing but the sound of Frank’s soft breathing, Matt’s own right alongside his.

Matt breaks into a smile. He can’t help himself. He hopes his heartbeat isn’t spiking too much, giving him away, but Frank must not notice if it is. He’s too busy keeping his head down, embarrassment rolling off him in waves as Matt pets him on the head one more time before withdrawing.

“You hungry?” Matt asks.

Frank gives an indignant huff and storms away from him.

“Alright.” Matt heads to the kitchen to make some dinner.

* * *

Foggy calls. Matt gives him a response that isn’t a total lie. He really is helping Jessica and Trish out with something; he just doesn’t specify that it’s dog-sitting Frank. A promise to make dinner up to Foggy and Karen some other time and gets off the phone before Frank can bark or chew the couch in petty retaliation.

Surprisingly, things have calmed. Frank isn’t restlessly pacing, nor is he enacting any kind of brutal violence on the furniture. He’s pushed one of the armchairs to the window and sits, watching the street exactly the way he would if he was human. Well, almost exactly. Frank stands when he comes by, even when he drinks whatever whiskey or coffee he’s brought to ply Matt into some kind of plan or agreement. Never works, or at least, it never works the way Frank expects.

Which begs the questions, again, why Frank’s here, why Frank can smell him. Trust is a strong word and far too simple for what passes between them. And not-hating is ludicrously broad. Of course Frank doesn’t hate him; Matt doesn’t hate Frank either. In fact, Matt doubts that Frank actually hates as much as people think he does. But that doesn’t help determine what cosmic forces are at work when Frank can only track Matt’s scent.

Matt puts one bowl and his plate on the coffee table. He hears Frank in the chair, deafeningly silent in judgment, and realizes his error. He puts the bowl on the floor, earning a huff of, “Yeah, I thought so,” in response.

Sinking onto the couch for his own meal (while Frank continues his redundant surveillance of the street), Matt continues working the problem in his head. Hetty turns Frank into a dog so he doesn’t get treated like the big, bad Punisher for a while, and she specifies one person to be Frank’s touchstone. But the Punisher and Daredevil connection isn’t well-known, at least not outside of Matt’s circle. And if it’s up to Frank, seems like there are more worthy candidates. He and Trish got along too well, according to Jess, and further alliances between them would be, in her own words, “Hell no.”

Matt debates contacting them, but he doesn’t want Frank to hear, not if the terms and conditions of his enchantment are the sore spot. Though what the hell does he had left to protect? Pretty sure whatever dignity Frank’s trying to maintain vanished when Matt scratched his neck and damn near called him a good boy.

That feeling, the one without a name, circles in his gut. Matt puts his empty plate aside and outthinks his frustration. Frank and the spell that turned him into a dog isn’t worth all these mental gymnastics. What will be between them will be, just as it always has and it always will.

Frank’s out of the chair and finished eating by the time Matt’s settled inside himself. He makes like he might resume his post, but after a few quick circles – a feeble attempt to evade Matt’s senses, possibly – he hops up onto the far end of the couch. He sits, straightening his back so that his head sits higher than Matt’s, his heartbeat radiating through his chest to fill the apartment the way he did earlier with his smell.

Matt scoffs, smirks. He puts out a hand and scratches Frank on the neck, earning an irritated growl and recoil. Frank shuffles over towards the armrest, pressing himself as tight as possible, so that Matt’s fingertips can only brush the tips of his fur. When that doesn’t work, he gives a warning bite, though Matt notices he misses. His cheek flaps against Matt’s fingers, hinting at teeth he won’t use.

“You’re not gonna bite me,” Matt says. “You would have bitten me already.”  
  
Another growl, a muttered argument. Maybe, Frank seems to say, he was saving the bite. Maybe he wants to make it count.

Matt sighs, sick of this. Sicker, still, knowing that he won’t get an answer, even when he asks, out loud, “Why me, Frank?”

He doesn’t say the rest: that Frank could have had anybody else, and probably should have, and kind of did, given the days he’s spent with Trish. Yet after all that, the doting and the companionship, he still ended up in Matt’s wake. He always ends up in Matt’s wake.

“Did you…?” Matt isn’t sure why he’s still asking questions: Frank’s a dog, and Frank’s also _Frank_. For as unsubtle as he is, he is a master of never answering the damn question. Again, Matt feels even more compelled to ask given that he’ll never get a response. “You didn’t choose. You wanted Trish. You wanted it to be anyone else. But you got me.”

Matt shakes his head, sighing. An apology bubbles up from the wringing of his guts. Frank gets turned into a dog and gets him as a target, and the spell isn’t broken, and what the hell does it all mean?

“I’m-“

Frank is suddenly beside him, cutting off Matt’s apology with one messy lick to his chin and bottom lip. Matt recoils, earning another lick to the cheek, then one little bite to his earlobe. He reaches up and grabs hold of Frank’s collar only to find Frank isn’t moving away. He’s standing there, his heartbeat roaring inside him, a growl deep in his throat. Angry and frustrated and something else, something Matt can’t name.

Matt drops his hand from Frank’s collar. Frank’s doesn’t back away. He turns, dropping his haunches into a sit right next to Matt.

They stay that way for a while. No more questions necessary. All the answers are right there.

* * *

Happy Reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> I GOT AN UPDATE FINISHED IN LESS THAN A WEEK!
> 
> And that is the last I’m going to say on the subject, because I don’t want to scare myself away (but oh, my God, this feels so good).
> 
> Thank you, Readers, so much. SO MUCH. Please, enjoy.

* * *

They’re gathered in one of the safehouses between patrols – Luke, Danny, Jessica, Trish. Even Hetty’s there, saying she doesn’t need protection, but it would be nice to not have to watch her back for one night. Jessica doesn’t want to let her go, but none of the others can think of a way to hold her, not with the threat of body-swapping looming.

They’ve got renovations happening in the back for their Heroes for Hire operation leaving the whole place drafty, chilled. Jessica and Trish are bundled in jackets; Luke is in his hoodie. Danny and Hetty, meanwhile, seem perfectly at ease with the chill.

They also seem perfectly at ease with each other. Danny asks her all the questions – how the body swapping works, how working magic feels. He draws comparisons with his chi, asking if the principles are similar. Hetty is only too happy to talk. They sit cross-legged on the couch, facing each other, Danny retelling the story of punching a dragon in the heart while Hetty talks about the history of dragons around the world, how they work within various magic systems.

“So what happens now?” Jessica finally interrupts them. She keeps checking her phone for a call from Murdock, but there’s nothing. No word on whether he found Frank or Frank found him; whether the spell’s broken, whether it broke in a public place. If there’s just a naked Frank Castle brawling with Matt Murdock, and if there’s video footage – Jessica isn’t sure what she wants, only that she wants some resolution to what she’s loosely considering a case.

“We wait,” Luke replies. He spins around in one of the chairs, facing Hetty. “Isn’t that right?”  
  
“Basically,” she says.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Jessica paces towards the plastic sheets rustling in the back of the shop, wishing there was more to this. Or that there was less to this. It’s not like the terms of the spell were complicated. “You told Frank what he had to do. Why isn’t he doing it?”  
  
“It’s not really up to him,” Trish says gently.  
  
“But Jessica’s right,” Danny adds, looking to Hetty for guidance. “Frank knows what he has to do. You gave him the power to end this from the beginning.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean he wants to,” Hetty says.

“He wants to…stay a dog?” Trish asks. The thought seems impossibly sad.

“More like he doesn’t want to do what it takes to not be a dog anymore.” Hetty shifts on the couch so she’s speaking to the whole room. “Have you ever been in l-?“

“Don’t say it,” Jessica snaps.

“Yes,” Danny says, without hesitation.

Trish shrugs. “I mean…”

“What’s your point?” Luke asks.

Hetty passes a smile around the room at the sweet summer children who refuse to answer directly. “There’s an element of choice, but it’s usually something we let happen."  
  
“He might be a dog forever,” Luke says.

"If it was Trish, he would have been a human by now,” Danny adds. 

Trish and Jess both give him a look, but he remains nonplussed. “It’s true and you both know it. The only reason he’s not letting this happen is because it’s Matt."

"And the prospect of, I don’t know, being happy for once. Guy like Frank would have a problem with that," Luke adds.  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure none of you know what that’s like,” Hetty says.

Jessica glares, gripping the talismans in her pocket so hard some of them snap. “I will hex you so hard-“  
  
“It’s scary,” Luke interrupts her, “Letting things happen. Letting good things happen. _Accepting_ the good things that happen. Means there’s something to lose.”

“Frank’s already lost many things,” Danny says.

Everybody goes quiet, amazed. Danny’s attitude towards helping Frank hasn’t softened at all over the past few days. He’s driven purely by the moral imperative to help another, if that. Acknowledging Frank’s loss seems like a big step.

At least until, “Loss doesn’t excuse murder.” Spoken in Danny’s Immortal Iron Fist voice.

Hetty is about to say something, likely that Frank stopped her own murder from happening, but Luke, Jess, and Trish all shake their heads at her. Jess even mouths the word, “Don’t.”

Instead, Hetty says, “Loss makes it difficult to let things – good or bad, but especially good – happen. To be honest about them and the way you feel. Even if it means being a dog. And you guys made his being a dog pretty nice for him.”  
  
Jessica walks away from that, straight into the cold wafting in through open walls and plastic sheets from the renovation.

“It’s hard to accept good things,” Luke says, her shadow in his periphery.

* * *

Matt tells himself he’ll go out just as soon as Frank falls asleep, but he’s still sitting on the couch when Frank curls into a ball and settles into a doze. Maybe he wants to be sure; yeah, that’s it, he’s waiting for Frank to be good and out. Getting into the suit is a noisy prospect. Gotta wait until he knows he won’t get interrupted or followed.

He sticks with that thought, that Frank might be faking, even though there’s no way a heartbeat – least of all Frank’s – could sound that asleep without actually being _that_ asleep. Matt puts a hand on the back of Frank’s neck in what he tells himself is a check. There’s an infinitesimal change to Frank’s pulse. He lets out a soft groan and turns, as if rousing, but the thrill of vindication leaves Matt as quickly as it comes. Frank ends up turned over on his back, still asleep, this time with his neck and head pinning Matt’s arm onto the couch.

Matt sighs. He settles back on the couch without moving trying to free himself. The warmth from the top of Frank’s head radiates through him with every beat of Frank’s heart, an anchor to the apartment, and strangely not an unwelcome one even though Matt tries to convince himself otherwise. That he should be in the suit usually pulls him away, but it doesn’t, not tonight.

He stops forcing the feeling. As if on cue, Frank rolls again, his neck the only part of his body still on Matt’s thumb. He’s completely on his back now, chest and belly exposed, his heartbeat pulsing through the room. Matt takes his time getting up to standing, then he takes his time to stand, then he goes, not towards the armour, but to where he keeps his spare blankets. He grabs one and brings it back to the couch, gently draping it over Frank’s sleeping form.

Frank grunts and shuffles. Matt’s already resigned to fight, but he isn’t disappointed when Frank stops, still asleep. Matt brushes back the fur on his head one more time, and then he goes to the bedroom, changing quickly into some sweats. He grabs his phone off the table. There are messages from Jess, demanding if he’s found Frank. He sends her a brief reply, keeping his voice low so that Frank doesn’t wake: **He’s here**.

Then he puts the phone down and goes to the bathroom to wash up.

There are no questions, there’s no guilt. Matt’s distantly aware that these are things he would normally feel, but tonight he doesn’t. He can’t leave Frank alone, not without trouble from Frank. Or what if someone breaks in, ends up mauled to death by the Punisher? It’s ludicrous. The Foggy voice in his head tells him so, but Matt lets it be real, lets it be his reason.

* * *

It’s still night when he wakes; Matt can tell from the sounds outside, the chill in his bedroom, though neither of those facts are at the forefront of his thoughts. 

Frank’s heartbeat is different: he’s awake, but it’s more than that. It’s the tone. Every beat hits his chest differently. Less the rap of a fist against a drum, more a low, warm rumble of thunder or the impact of waves on the shore. He’s still on the couch, must be. The couch back must be stretching out the sound of the beats, but Matt swears it wasn’t doing that before, and he can’t fathom why it would be now.

He gets out of bed and comes to the doorway. Frank’s heartbeat rises ever-so-slightly. Matt stretches out a hand, begging him not to run, but Frank doesn’t even try. His heartbeat stays put, letting Matt slowly make his way through the living room towards him.

The smells of wet dog and dinner linger in the apartment, confounding Matt’s senses. He puts his knee up to the edge of the couch, grips the couch back, and follows, stopping only when the fabric of his sweatpants brushes a limb. Frank’s heartbeat rises again, and Matt instinctively raises a hand in reassurance. His other hand slides along the back of the couch till he meets the bristles on the back of Frank’s neck, and once there, they stop moving. He stops moving. His own heart thumps away in the back of his throat.

“Frank?” he asks.

Frank’s a statue. His heartbeat rises only to slow right back down as Matt smooths a thumb down the back of his neck to reach the skin between his shoulder blades. Frank exhales, shifting slightly. The blanket twists on the couch around him, through his fingers and over his lap. His legs twitch, bare feet scuffle against the floor, and chills roll through him, goosebumps prickling up under Matt’s fingers as they find their way back to Frank’s neck. 

The realization of what’s happened hits Matt, but like most blows from Frank, the impact barely registers. He accepts it. He eases his hand down, cupping the back of Frank’s head. He sits before Frank can stand up, pressing his leg against Frank’s own. The breath hitches in Frank’s throat, something only Matt can hear, but Frank pushes through it, exhaling again. Shivers rove through him, similar to the sound of his muscles holding himself back when he was a dog, but instead of racing towards Matt, he’s fighting the instinct to run away.

Matt reaches for the armrest. His arm crosses Frank’s front, the skin of his bicep meeting the skin of Frank’s chest, while Frank’s bicep presses against Matt’s sternum. It should be strange, being this close, without armour or fur between them, but Frank’s shivers start to subside. Matt eases into the position more. He lifts his hand from the back of Frank’s neck to place it on top of Frank’s head.

Frank turns slightly. Matt can feel his gaze, is very aware of how the muscles in Frank’s tense in anticipation. If he wants a fight, he isn’t going to get it, and if he tries to pull away, Matt will let him go. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, leaving Matt to draw his hand slowly over the crown of Frank’s head, down his scalp, all the way to his neck.

The breath releases itself from Frank’s chest. The tension drains out of him. He turns, folding from his centre towards Matt.

His forehead meets Matt’s cheek. Matt’s hand leaves the armrest, wrapping the rest of the way round Frank’s chest. His other hand rises back up to the top of Frank’s head, stroking him again. “Good boy,” he whispers.

Frank gives him a light punch to the waist. Matt laughs and holds him tighter.

* * *

Happy Reading!


End file.
